


Held Captive

by NightWings (Kiliann)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Hostage Situations, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Slow Burn, like really slow burn because its my fave, reader is a holmes sibling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-04-12 00:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 38,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4458359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiliann/pseuds/NightWings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're in London, and you have no idea why. After your brother's flatmate finds you sprawled across the pavement sustaining severe injuries, you set out to find out why you came and who did this to you.</p><p>John Watson/Reader; originally posted on <a href="http://www.kiliann.deviantart.com/">my deviantart</a> under the same username :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Blinding, hot pain shoots up your legs, and you feel gravel pressing into your face. Falling, you were falling, you had been falling—were you still falling? No, but the world was spinning, and suddenly you were nauseous. Something warm and sticky was covering a portion of your hands and face, and just before you lost consciousness you thought it might be blood.

* * *

Tonight, John Watson was not amused. His colleague and flatmate Sherlock Holmes was having another one of his "off" days while working on a case. The man did this sometimes—aggravate John to the point where he needed to just get out of the flat for a few hours, spend the night somewhere even. Right now he was between girlfriends, so it seemed he would only be taking a short walk before returning to 221B.

The night was one of his favorite kinds. The air was cool and crisp, a refreshing blend of night and stars. Not many people were out on this less-busy road of London, and it was very quiet aside from the occasional passing cab. The whole scene was a painting of deep blues, blacks, and the occasional grey. It was quite lovely, John thought, his anger dissipating. He heard the sound of a giggling group of young American tourists turning the corner behind him. The silence was broken, but the picture remained the same. John sighed and stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. It was beginning to get chilly, he thought. His fingers brushed over an old cinema stub. 

How long had it been since he'd been to a film? 

He hadn't taken anyone there since... since he couldn't remember. Most of his dates hadn't been working out lately, and he hadn't had a second one in quite some time. It wasn't as though he was desperate for women; he was simply a social man.

A piercing, terrified shriek behind him caught his attention, and instinctively he whipped around.

By the time he'd turned, the small group of Americans were gathered in a tight circle, screeching at something that had fallen onto the ground. Other concerned passerby were beginning to cross the street and pull out their phones. John looked at the gaps between their legs, and—yes, the space was big enough for a human to be there. One of them must have tripped. A few girls stumbled backwards, and one began vomiting into the gutter. It must look bad, John thought. The instincts of a doctor began to take over, and the man rushed over. What he saw made his heart leap into his throat.

A bloody mess lay on the ground before him. The girl—or was it a woman?—lay at an awkward angle, her arm bent in an unnatural way and her face covered in blood. A gash in her arm added to the gore, and it was no wonder that the witnesses stood frozen on the spot. This certainly wasn't a simple trip and fall. This woman had fallen from much further than ground-level. John looked up for a moment to look at the buildings. None of the windows were open and he saw no balconies. Perhaps someone had already closed the window this person had fallen out of. Or had she been shoved? What had happened here?

"Alright, everybody stand back. I'm a doctor!" The usual response to this statement occurred—everyone backed up, giving him a better view of the once-in-shadows victim. "How did this happen?" he asked distractedly to one of the girls.

"Sh-she just sort of fell from somewhere. I don't even know. Oh my g—I want to get out of here." The girl's horrified, dull tone echoed shock and disbelief. John nodded and bent over to look closer at the fallen victim. 

"Someone call an ambulance," he muttered, looking closer at the young woman's face. The brunt of the impact had been at the legs—judging from the angle, she'd landed feet-first and broken one or both ankles. Her wrists, too, appeared broken. She'd probably done what most falling people do—stretch her arms out to catch herself. Her head didn't seem injured other than a small cut on the forehead. Head wounds bled a lot, so it looked much worse than it was.

The faint sounds of a siren approached. John deemed that it was safe to attempt to roll the girl onto her back. He did so after a bit of difficulty, and the true nature of her face was revealed. The girls who remained shrieked again and stumbled backwards, ready to leave the scene. The few men and women who had gathered gave little gasps of horror. The scratch was a bit longer than John had anticipated. It really wasn't a bad wound, but the blood ran thick down her face and into her matted hair. It would have been a horrific sight for anyone who hadn't seen such injuries before.

The ambulance pulled up quickly, and seeing the nature of the situation, paramedics rushed out to put the girl on a stretcher. John looked down at the blood on his hands and into the back of the ambulance. The closest hospital was St. Bart's, so perhaps he could get a ride and contact Sherlock. Maybe his friend would have some ideas as to how the girl had fallen.

The paramedics did not question the man clambering into the ambulance whose hands and shirt were stained crimson. The young woman's face was so unrecognizable from blood that he could have been her father for all they knew. What surprised them was when the man began to help them stabilize her condition.

"Are you a doctor, sir?" A woman with straight blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail looked inquiringly at John as he began to apply some disinfectant to a cloth and blot the girl's face.

"Yes." He didn't feel like discussing anything at the moment. He was too focused on clearing the blood and trying to find answers about this mysterious incident.

Another paramedic sat by, fiddling with something. "Here, you can take over," John said quickly, realizing that he was doing a job for them. Embarrassed, he stepped back and let the men and women do their duty. As the vehicle pulled into the hospital, John let out a breath he realized he'd been holding. 

The woman was alive. She'd made it. He let out another long, shaky breath. It had been a long time since he'd seen an accident of that magnitude, even after being with Sherlock on his cases. Generally, murderers didn't like to leave behind quite so much blood.

As soon as the sight of the woman being wheeled in was revealed, doctors and nurses began to rush about and surround the crew in a tidal wave of white. John was left alone, covered in blood and in the center of the emergency room. Hurriedly, he rushed out to find a restroom in which to wash up, and then he would call Sherlock.

 

"John."

"Yeah, listen—I'm at the hospital right now an-"

"What's happened? Are you alright?" John smirked at the note of concern in the man's voice.

"Yes, I'm fine. I witnessed a-an accident. I need your help trying to figure out what went on."

"I'm in the middle of a case, John—I don't have time for this." There was a pause, and John realized Sherlock was, in fact, waiting for him to continue.

"Well, this girl—she fell. Literally out of nowhere. There were no windows or balconies or anything, like she'd just sort of fallen out of the sky." Another pause.

"I'll be over in a moment."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! I've finally gotten over my anxiety over publishing this and posted it! Yeah!
> 
> I must warn you before you get excited—I have no experience in writing anything romance whatsoever and will be relying heavily on reading the works of other great writers and my own knowledge of these sorts of fics. Basically, please expect this to be very awkward, not published regularly, and probably very unrealistic in some places where I'm trying to figure out what to do.  
> I've got a pretty cool plot sketched out, so hopefully that shall redeem this if it turns out terrible on the characterization and romance aspect.  
> Thanks so much for reading ^^
> 
> Special thanks to TheBeethatHums and iced-ninja for triggering this sudden interest in John x Reader fics and Sherlock fics in general. Without them I wouldn't be writing this.  
> Also, thank you to my copy-editor and friend Sunbeargirl for just being awesome.


	2. Chapter 2

You jolted awake as soon as you felt the cold needle of an IV lodged in your arm. Quickly, you scanned the ceiling of the room: plain white. Looking down the bridge of your nose, you saw a bit more of the room you were in. The pale green paper gown you currently wore made you breathe a quick sigh of relief. You were in a hospital. Probably in London somewhere, seeing as that's where you'd been when you fell.

Fell. You'd fallen? It almost hurt your head trying to remember what had happened. You couldn't quite bring back to mind what had gone on, and you could tell it wasn't any use trying. It would come back eventually—the familiar sensation of a throbbing, almost blinding, headache told you that it was highly likely you had a minor concussion.

"You're awake."

You turned your head rapidly to your left. A familiar shape was curled up in a small chair next to your bed, blinking blearily at you. A mixture of shock and relief flooded you; you weren't sure where the relief had come in, but the rush of feelings added up to a pool of joy. 

"Oh my stars, Sherlock. It's so good to see you again." You grinned at him. There was no use trying to say anything witty—your mind was blank.

"Are you alright? Does anything hurt?" When you didn't at least try to crack a bad joke, it seemed your brother could tell what a killer headache you had.

"Hmm? I've got a headache. And kind of a body ache. Sort of a 'this goes off the scale of your bloody 1-to-10' pain." This earned a grin back from Sherlock, who leaned over to push the call button next to your head. You mumbled something gratefully before nearly falling asleep again.

"Is she awake?" A female voice echoed uncomfortably loudly through the room, and you squeezed your eyes tightly shut. You nodded slightly, and when the nurse didn't continue speaking, you opened your eyes.

"Before you ask, I'm feeling sort of like crap. I've got a massive headache and I feel like I've been run over by a truck. On a scale of 1 to 10 it'd honestly be a 10, though I haven't passed out yet so... Anyways, I have a mild concussion and am experiencing memory loss, though only of the previous two days. Can I get some more pain medication, please?" You blinked. Prior experience had given you many opportunities to learn exactly what nurses and doctors wanted to hear. You knew you sounded absolutely ridiculous, but the pain was almost too much now. Were they giving you any medication at all?

"Ah, yes. I'll go fetch the doctor—let me adjust this dial and increase your morphine levels for just a bit—the pain should lessen shortly." The nurse was seemingly not as perturbed by your behavior. You glanced knowingly at Sherlock—he'd most likely alerted the staff of your heavy experience.

As soon as the nurse was out of sight, you let your head fall back onto the pillow and breathed a sigh of exhaustion. "Sherlock, how in the world did you find me?"

Your brother's eyebrows knitted together. "Shouldn't I be asking you the same question?"

Now it was your turn to frown. "You mean... I was trying to find you?"

"I have no idea, (f/n). Can't you remember why you were here in London?"

You shook your head slowly. "No. I'm sure it will come back to me sooner or later, but I have no idea why I'm here. Must be something to do with work." Your job had you all over the place; both of you knew it, which was why you hadn't seen your brother in over two years. Your family was used to frequent, unexplained absences, though your mother hated it and would scold you harshly for not warning her about it when you would finally arrive home. "I've missed you," you said quietly.

"And I you," Sherlock gave you a reassuring smile as your face fell. Why did you always end up dramatically injured and in the hospital? It seemed to be a consistent pattern. As a child you weren't allowed near playgrounds after many a tumble, and as an adult you had an extremely dangerous job that often landed you in medical centers across the country. It was at times like these, when you were at your weakest, that you wondered if it was really worth it. In the end it always was, but you had a cycle of highs and lows just like the rest. However, you really, really hated hospitals.

"Hey, how did you know I was here? All I remember is falling, and since you weren't there... did someone recognize me?" After a moment, your curiosity as to how you'd been discovered outweighed your regular hospital-induced gloom.

Sherlock sat up and grinned. "Actually, it appears my discovering you was a complete coincidence. My colleague and flatmate was out on a walk when you fell from the building, and he alerted me to the mysterious circumstances. I arrived to try and uncover more information, and it was you. Automatically, I assumed it was simply in your line of duty." You nodded.

"Brilliant. Well, I suppose once I'm discharged I can stay with you awhile? I don't believe they're going to call me back with these injuries, at least not for a while. Plus, I don't remember anything, so I'm not going to be the most helpful." You looked hopefully at your older brother.

"The memory loss should fade in time—but yes, as long as John's alright with it I'm certain you can stay with us." You eyes narrowed as you remembered that your brother had a new flatmate. You'd probably be banished to the couch.

"Alright."

An older doctor with an excellent bedside manner popped into your room and began asking you the usual questions. You answered quickly and precisely, knowing exactly what was expected of you. He then began to explain that you'd broken your right wrist and both of your ankles. Your right ankle was merely a fracture, but there would need to be a surgery on both. The bad news: you wouldn't be putting weight on either ankle for 6 weeks, and crutches would be a replacement for your left ankle for a few months.

"You broke your fall in the best way possible; landing on your feet and rolling minimized the impact. You're a lucky girl." The doctor smiled at you in a patronizing way that only a doctor could. It made the wrinkles that covered his face deepen considerably. You did your best to smile back, though a feeble attempt.

After a few minutes of tinkering with machines and making small talk, the doctor left you and Sherlock in peace at last.

Your brother opened his mouth to say something, but you closed your eyes and shook your head. "I'm exhausted, Sherlock. I'm just gonna sleep for a little, and maybe we can talk then... I mean, later..."

The hospital drugs began to take a stronger effect, and Sherlock watched you peacefully go limp and drift off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awesome chapter one is here  Finally from the reader's perspective. Sorry folks, it will be a while before you find out what your career is. 'Tis not something the reader talks about a lot.
> 
> More thanks to [Sunbeargirl](http://sunbeargirl.deviantart.com) for being a copy-editing ninja, and also to [iced-ninja](http://iced-ninja.deviantart.com) and [TheBeethatHums](http://thebeethathums.deviantart.com) for the support and super awesome encouragement!


	3. Chapter 3

"She's your... sister? You never told me you had a sister, Sherlock!" John ran his hands through his hair, exasperated.

"You never asked."

"For goodness' sake, Sherlock," Mycroft muttered, "Does your family even matter to you?"

"Of course they matter to me!" Sherlock snapped, startling the pair of men. John looked uneasily at your sleeping form.

"How did the surgery go?" He asked uncertainly, trying to change the subject. 

"Fine." Sherlock looked over in your direction, Mycroft doing the same. Your breath came shallow and barely visible. You would be discharged from the hospital tomorrow, and would need to keep weight off both ankles for six weeks, and crutches for another six. You were very lucky not to have been more seriously injured—but your brothers of all people knew how unhappy you were going to be with the situation. And your wrist—it was your right wrist. You wouldn't be drawing for a couple of months. Lord knows how furious you would be about that one.

"Brother, how long has she been asleep?" Mycroft asked idly.

"It's been six hours since the surgery. She's probably awakened since then, but she's tired. Her work, most likely." Sherlock looked at his watch.

"I don't get it—what's so important about her job? What does she do?" John pressed, his brow furrowed.

"That would not be my place to say, Dr. Watson." Mycroft informed him. John's face looked even more confused, but he dropped the subject.

A nurse rushed into the room to check vitals and deliver a late afternoon meal. Your eyes fluttered open as she fiddled with knobs next to your IV line.

"What time is it?" you asked, your voice sounding much less groggy than anyone had expected. 

Sherlock didn't bother to check his watch again. "It's [2:30](http://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?x-apple-data-detectors://0) in the afternoon."

"Oh, alright. I've been asleep for hours. My ankles are sore... probably because I went and landed on them like a bloody idiot." You pushed a button on a remote from your bedside and the bed was brought up to a sitting position. "Hey, Myc! How's everything going? And do YOU know why I was in London?"

Your cheerful demeanor, while unexpected, was certainly usual for you. You joked that you had to make up for your brothers' lack of emotion sometimes. 

"It's good to see you too, (f/n). And no, I haven't the faintest idea why you were in London." Your face fell in slight disappointment.

"Oh, well. I'll figure it out eventually. And you must be... John? Watson? Sherlock told me you were his flatmate and that I have you to thank for getting me to the hospital so quickly." You grinned at the blonde man, who looked at the ground.

"Well, you would've gotten here all the same; there was quite a crowd." He smiled back at you for a moment. You noted that he was fairly shy, possibly because of the fact you were a woman. You certainly didn't have your siblings' observational skills, but growing up with them instilled habits of reading a person.

"Well thank you all the same, John. I'm sure putting up with a bleeding mess was rather frightening." You laughed, and so did he.

"No, not at all; I'm a doctor, you see, so being squeamish isn't a problem." Your face darkened for a moment at this new revelation.

"A doctor? Well, I can hope you're a nice doctor. I hate most of them; these places are the worst," you grumbled, gesturing around the blank hospital room. To your surprise, John actually nodded in agreement.

"I never much liked staying in hospitals either. Even doctors hate other doctors."

"Really? That's good to know." You laughed again, this time a little louder. The nurse, who had finished fiddling with the IV and catheter, began making preparations for you to eat. She flipped a sort of tray from the side of the bed over your lap and set a tray of food in front of you. 

"Thanks!" You looked down hungrily at a limp ham sandwich, a canned peach-half, and some jello. "Hmm. Yum."

As soon as the woman had left the room, Sherlock almost reluctantly pulled out a bag of gummy bears. Your eyes lit up with a sort of child-like glee.

"Gummy bears?! Oh, Sherlock, you're the best!" You reached for the bag of your favourite candy, but your brother pulled it back.

"Eat something healthy first. Then you can have gummy bears."

"Okay..." You frowned and poked at your sandwich with your fingers. John laughed, which prompted a faint smile on your part.

You opened up the sandwich and inspected the lettuce. It was about as limp as the hand of a dead body. Perhaps the hospital recycled unidentified bodies into their food, like Sweeney Todd.

You considered yourself to be rather morbid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which John discovers Sherlock has another relative, you get gummy bears, and your mindset matches that of Hannibal's.
> 
> As always, thanks to [Sunbeargirl](http://sunbeargirl.deviantart.com) for copy-editing and to all of my coolness watchers who made me want to write this. Y'all are awesome and fantastic and brilliant and whatever other positive adjectives there are!


	4. Chapter 4

"Oh my gosh, how long are these stairs?" You moaned, looking horrified at the bottom of the staircase at 221B. Sherlock tightened his grip on your wheelchair and began the long, slow climb up the stairs to your new temporary apartment.

"Please don't drop me, please be ca- AH oh crap sorry, no no no no please slow down- GAHH I'm gonna fall, no I swear I am, someone help," you panicked. You hated every second of being balanced precariously on each step, relying solely on Sherlock's strength, which you doubted.

"Is everything alright?" A small, concerned voice came from the bottom of the stairs. 

"No," you squeaked just as Sherlock grunted, "Yes, everything's alright Mrs. Hudson."

"I-is this a case?" The older woman asked timidly. 

"No, actually—this is my sister, (f/n). She's been injured while here in London-"

"Well, I can see that."

"-and doesn't have a place to stay, so she'll be here with us for however long it takes for her to get her bearings." Sherlock finished, panting from the effort it took to hold your weight and a wheelchair. "This is our landlady, Mrs. Hudson," he added for your benefit. 

"N-nice to meet you—AH! Careful!" Your knuckles were white as the wheelchair wobbled. You gripped the armrests like they were the only thing that mattered in the world.

"If you need anything, dear, feel free to call—those two can be quite a handful," Mrs. Hudson chuckled, seemingly oblivious to your impending doom of tumbling down the stairs. You heard her footsteps depart from the bottom of the stairwell.

"Need any help, Sherlock?" John called from somewhere upstairs.

"Yes, that would be beneficial," Sherlock strained. He'd finally gotten you to the middle landing and you could see up a little into the flat before John appeared at the top and blocked your view.

"Here, let me just... grab the wheels," John took hold of the wheelchair, and, together, he and Sherlock lifted you up and carried your chair on a much more comfortable journey up the stairs.

"This is nice... I like it," you declared upon seeing the flat. It was a little messy, but you liked things that way. You smirked but said nothing about the bullet holes and spray-painted smiley face on the wall. The black couch underneath it seemed to be the place you might be sleeping, you guessed. It was the largest couch in the living room.

Wheeling towards the left, you found the entrance to the kitchen, which was absolutely filthy.

"You know what, I don't even want to go in there right now," you mumbled as Sherlock hurried to check something in the refrigerator. "So..." You turned your chair back around to face John. "This wheelchair is really fun. Of all the times I've been in the hospital, I've never been in one of these this long before. It's fantastic." To demonstrate, you did a quick 360°-turnaround and zoomed off in the direction of the couch. You heard John laugh behind you. 

"What? It's fun! Don't knock it until you can't use both legs. This is much more efficient." You giggled and spun around again. It was quite likely the hospital drugs still hadn't worn off. Or perhaps it was the gummy bears. Anyhow, whatever it was had left you in a much more energetic mood than usual.

"Alright..." Sherlock entered the room again, pausing as he calculated what to do. "I'll assume we're all hungry-"

"I'm famished. Hospital food is rubbish," you interrupted, knowing full well it would annoy your brother.

"-so I can go out to get some takeout."

"Chinese?" you asked, your face darkening.

"... Yes." Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You're not STILL sick of it, are you?"

"Well who wouldn't be," you cried, "after living off of REAL oriental food for a year! These imitations are disgusting!"

John chuckled as he watched the two of you banter about how you'd lived in Indonesia and Brunei for a couple of years, and that Asian cuisine here was cheap and gross. Things were beginning to heat up when he interjected, "Why don't you get takeout for us, Sherlock, and I can find some leftover scones or something for (f/n)?" Both of you looked up at him, slightly annoyed that he'd interrupted your 'important' debate. 

"Well, scones sound good to me. I've missed home cooking." You shrugged, dropping the argument purely to annoy Sherlock, who nodded tersely and turned to leave, saying nothing.

"Sorry," you turned back to John, "I just really don't like the Chinese food they serve in restaurants here. I lived in Asia for a while and the amount of sugar and other rubbish they put in the food here is just disgusting."

"It's quite alright—I suppose if in the same situation I'd do the same." John went into the kitchen and warily opened the freezer. When nothing out of the ordinary seemed to be inside, he began rummaging around.

"Hey, what's this? Oh, it's Sherlock's... Eew." You stared transfixed at a bag of lumpy yellow-ish material in a ziplock bag labelled 'nose cartilage.'

"For an experiment," John mumbled in a disgusted tone.

"Obviously... what else would he be doing with this?" You laughed and looked at the piles along the rest of the table. The kitchen was an absolute mess—just like it usually was. Piles of books, papers, mugs, and bacteria in dishes were scattered over the table and counters. You didn't dare go near the fridge. You'd really missed staying with your brother.

The silence in the room thickened until you could cut it with a knife and spread it on toast. Here you were in a flat with a man you'd just met, waiting as he tried to find something for you to eat. Yeah, this was beyond awkward. Still slightly loopy from the drugs, you realized that this was not a good situation. Perhaps you should leave the vicinity for a short while.

You wheeled out of the kitchen back into the living room and noticed a familiar friend sitting on the mantle of the fireplace.

"Mr. Frankie! Oh my gosh, you're still here!" Your plans of decreasing the awkward failed miserably as John peered curiously at you from the kitchen. "It's—it's the skull. Sherlock's had him for the longest time—I got it for him for his birthday a long time ago. I had no idea he'd keep the little guy," you giggled and plucked the skull from the mantle.

"Mr. Frankie? He has a name?" John's face went from amused to mildly concerned.

You looked down sheepishly. "Well... I don't even remember how it happened, but the name annoyed Sherlock; so I've called it that ever since."

John gave a quick 'ah,' before a strangled sound escaped his throat.

"What is it?" You quickly set the skull on you lap and wheeled into the kitchen again. John was frozen in front of the microwave—you looked in under his arm and saw a platter of organs in various states of decomposition.

"Oh my stars, Sherlock. Why?" You reached into the microwave to take the experiment out, shaking your head. "I don't even know where he gets these things."

"I've been in this flat for two years and I'm still not used to it," John shuddered, eyeing the plate you'd set on an empty space on the counter.

"Everyone has their quirks, I guess," you rolled your eyes and backed your wheelchair up a bit so John could stick whatever food he'd found for you into the microwave. "Sherlock's full of them."

John fiddled with the microwave for a moment, and once the machine began humming you looked up at John apologetically. "Y'know, I'm really sorry for just kind of barging in on you both here. I mean, I fell off a building, made you both sit around at the hospital with me, and now I'm eating your food and making life that much more inconvenient for you..." You trailed off, glancing down again at your lap and rubbing your thumb in circles around the inside of the skull's eye socket.

"No, not at all! Don't feel like a burden," The doctor said consolingly, "Actually, I think having you here might make it easier. Sherlock needs something to distract him from the boredom." He laughed weakly.

Your eyes went wide. "Oh no. How long has it been since he's had a case?"

John scratched the back of his neck, "Hmm. I think about three days."

Your stomach sank drastically, and your face showed immense concern. "Oh, no. This is bad. He's going to start going crazy soon. I need to do something."

"You forget I've lived with him for two years. I know," John laughed again, this time more genuine and hearty. You laughed with him. Already you felt a little more comfortable—perhaps your ambivalent feelings on staying here would disappear after a while.

Quiet settled over the flat as you ate, and John sat in an armchair typing something on his laptop. Just as you wondered where Sherlock might be, you heard the door to the flat pop open and the familiar rhythm of your brother's footsteps. The disgusting smell of too-sweet Chinese food hit your nostrils, but you simply wrinkled your nose and said nothing. It didn't matter much, anyways. 

The buttered scone you were eating tasted divine—it had been ages since your last home cooked meal. You could get used to this, you thought contentedly. Full and a little sleepy, you rested your cheek in the crook of your arm, listening to Sherlock describe a minor detail about an old case to John... You didn't even realize you'd closed your eyes before you were already asleep, your head cradled in one arm on the table's edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock's skull has a name and the reader feels really awkward whilst under the effects of many drugs and gummy bears.
> 
> This is the last finished chapter I'd already had written when I started writing the story, and school is being frankly catastrophic with science fair things and lots of tests, so these next few updates might be a little slow. I'm really sorry!
> 
> {Thanks to [Sunbeargirl](http://sunbeargirl.deviantart.com/) for the excellent beta-reading and to all of my watchers for being really, really awesome.}


	5. Chapter 5

You barely flinched as Sherlock gently lifted your sleeping form from the table and rolled you over to the couch. It was when he lifted you out of the chair that you made a sort of growl and flopped yourself onto it, some subconscious part of you wanting sleep. Some mumbled thanks escaped your throat before you'd buried yourself deeper into your hoodie and nestled into the couch. Your brother grabbed a blanket hanging over John's armchair and laid it over you. When you didn't stir, he appeared satisfied and left the room.

John looked curiously for a moment at your sleeping form. For an adult, you were rather light. You were much shorter than your two older brothers, but he'd never seen you standing up. Perhaps you were nearly his height? One could hope, John smirked. He looked back at you for a moment. You were quite interesting, he thought. Despite being jacked up on pain medication, you seemed quite cheerful and pleasant to talk to.

"John!" Sherlock's sharp cry came from the direction of the kitchen.

"Hmm?" John ambled in. Sherlock stood in the kitchen, looking furiously from John to something on the counter next to the fridge.

"You moved my experiment." For a moment, John had no idea what Sherlock was talking about. Then he recalled opening the microwave earlier that evening.

"Ahh, yeah—I had to use the microwave to heat up some dinner for (f/n)." He realized he'd never actually called you by name before now. It rolled off his tongue in a strange way, the way names always did when you'd never said them before and felt a bit peculiar saying them.

Sherlock didn't seem to think feeding his sister was very important. "Well, you should have found something else! Look, there are ants on the samples now, and it's ruined!" John sighed.

"Sherlock, she needed dinner. What was I supposed to do? I'm sorry your experiment didn't work out, but I'm sure you can try it again, alright?"

"Sherlock, I was the one who moved it." Your quiet, sleepy voice startled both men, and they whipped around. "John didn't want to touch it, so I just put it on the counter. I'm really sorry. I didn't know you had an ant problem."

Instead of growing calmer, John watched in horror as Sherlock turned on you instead. "Well, you could have at least put it back! Didn't you think of that? It took me ages to get those samples, and now I'm going to have to start over. That was a week's worth of mold, (f/n)! How could you be so careless? I would expect you of all people to understand!"

As your brother continued with his rant, you shrank smaller into your wheelchair, the light from the kitchen reflecting off the tears pooled in your eyes.

"Sh-Sherlock, I'm sorry! I-it's been so long since I stayed with you! I f-forgot, okay? I p-promise it isn't going to happen a-again." You were shivering now.

"I'll see to it that it doesn't." With that, he turned on his heel and stormed down the hall. There was a moment of shock before you couldn't contain your tears any longer; you burst into loud sobs and buried your head in your arms, all trace of your drug-induced state gone. John's anger at Sherlock disappeared in a rush of pity and embarrassment. 

What was he supposed to do? He took a tentative step towards you, but as soon as he did you let out a muffled, "S-sorry."

"No," John frowned, "No, don't be silly. You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for, (f/n). Your brother shouldn't be yelling at you for such a simple mistake—it is not your fault, alright?" His voice softened on his last sentence, and your sobs turned slowly to little whimpers as you shook.

"I just—I j-just thought he'd be n-nicer since it's my f-first day back," you mumbled tearfully into your sleeves. John's brow wrinkled. Was Sherlock always this awful to his sister? He fervently hoped not.

"Yes, and he should have been. I'm going to talk to him when he comes back to his senses; for now, I think you should go back to sleep, okay? It's getting late, and things will look better in the morning." When you said nothing, John realized he'd probably need to help get you to to couch. "I'm going to wheel you to the couch, alright?" You nodded.

John stepped around your wheelchair and grabbed it from behind; he rolled you carefully over to the couch and stopped. You lifted your head from your arms and tried to move yourself with your left arm onto the couch, but John shook his head.

"Here, let me help you." He let you push with your left arm while he steadied your right at the elbow. Your cast, a yellow-white bandage that reached three inches past your elbow, served as a good support in lowering you onto the couch.

"Thanks," you said quietly, "and sorry. About bothering you, I mean." It appeared that getting the words out had exhausted you, because you fell back onto the couch and curled into the fetal position as best you could with both legs and one arm in splints and casts.

John shook his head. You were quite over-sensitive, weren't you? "(F/n), you didn't bother me, alright? If anything, Sherlock did. Now get some rest." You obliged, tugging the blanket you'd left on the couch earlier over your shoulders and almost instantly going limp. Satisfied, John turned to go confront your angry brother—a task he was not looking forward to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gettin' real tired of your crap, Sherlock.
> 
> I decided to include a bit of a twist with this because in most fics Sherlock is generally well-tempered towards his siblings (minus Mycroft). Obviously he care for you as the reader and his sister, but surely he can't have infinite patience for you, can he? So I figured I'd throw in a little bonding for you and John since Sherly can't always be perfect.
> 
> _UP NEXT: John chews Sherlock out on his performance earlier._  
> 


	6. Chapter 6

John took a deep breath and rounded the corner to the kitchen only to find Sherlock sitting at the dinner table, waiting.

"Not here," John whispered, walking past his flatmate and towards the bedroom at the end of the hall. To his relief, Sherlock followed him without complaint. John closed the door to Sherlock's room behind them quietly, then whipped around to the confrontation.

"John—"

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, what were you thinking? She just arrived here, it was an honest mistake! You're so touchy, you know? Honestly, your own sister! Sherlock, you really hurt her. What in the world do you have to say for yourself?" John took a step back and folded his arms. He wanted to know what Sherlock's defense would be.

"John, listen, I—my frustration got the better of me like it does a lot of the time. I realize," he sighed, "I realize that I was wrong. I can do the experiment over again. It doesn't matter. But going back and apologizing instantly afterwards isn't logical." It seemed the great detective was stumped. John bit back the cruel urge to laugh.

"Well, apologize of course! What are you, a bleeding idiot? Her feelings are hurt, so you need to make it up to her!"

 

"How?" Sherlock's gaze fell to the floor as he realized he had no idea how to fix the situation. In all of his life, he had never been the source of your crying before. Not once. He was miserable, and he had no idea how to undo what damage he'd done. It was obvious he'd hurt you—you never cried this easily under normal circumstances. But how was he to go about making it up to you?

"Do something nice for her, make her tea, show her you feel bad. I don't know! It's your issue, alright? It's getting late, and I'm going to bed. Goodnight, Sherlock." John closed the door behind him, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts.

He'd never meant to cause any damage to your relationship—in truth, he'd missed your cheerful company while you were away. It'd been two years since you'd last been together, and it surprised him that he felt so sentimental about it. However, you were his little sister, after all, so he guessed it was only natural.

His mind brought him back to the present. He needed to apologize. John had more experience with women, so perhaps he should do you a favour; but Sherlock had definitely had more experience with you. He discarded what John had said earlier and decided to go about an apology his own way. He really hoped you would still appreciate it.

 

It was 4 am, and you weren't going back to sleep any time soon. You stared wide-eyed at the dark ceiling, debating whether or not to get up and try to do something productive. Finally, you rolled over to face your wheelchair and instead saw a nightstand holding a lamp and something else you couldn't make out. Flicking the switch, you found your notebooks and pencils illuminated by the light. The bulb was a nice faint orange that reminded you of a soft flame, and you guessed that no one outside of the room would be bothered by it. You smiled a little—Sherlock had thought to bring your favorite things to occupy you. 

The thought of your big brother brought a heaviness to your gut. It still hurt that he'd yelled at you. He'd never done that before, and it startled you more than anything else. What was so important about the experiment, anyways? You'd observed it was probably for post-mortum purposes, something for detecting the different kinds of foods eaten just before death. Either it was something very important dealing with a past case, or your brother was a little more on-edge than when you'd left him. Perhaps something was stressing him out.

You picked up the first notebook on the pile. It was for writing purposes—little story ideas or poetry stanzas that would pop into your head during the day. The second was a less-used book full of your completed writings in their final form, and the last was a sketchbook you liked to draw in occasionally when you were in the mood. None of the sketches were good at all, but you drew none the less. It was calming, and even though you weren't very good it was fun.

You really were a poet and a writer at heart, though. Lyrics and rhythm and words all came together quite naturally for you, and the short stories you composed were something you liked to be a little proud of. These notebooks weren't trusted in the hands of anyone but yourself and sometimes Sherlock or Mycroft.

Quickly, you flipped to the last-used page of your notebook filled with snippets of writings. Sure enough, a familiar scrawl flew messily across the page in black ink. This time it was a particularly bad haiku.

I am very sorry;  
I hope you like these notebooks  
I took from your things.

Your entire family joked that you were the one with all the creative juices in the family aside from Sherlock's violin talent. Neither of your big brothers could write or draw at all, and you were certain Sherlock was just poking fun at himself with this one. The poor quality was somewhat laughable, and you grinned. 

A thought occurred to you, though: how had Sherlock located these? You wondered if he'd found out something about what you'd been doing in London before you'd fallen from a building like the idiot you were. You glanced towards the door and saw the rest of your suitcases in a messy pile. He'd found them somehow and managed to get everything, which was a relief because you'd been worrying over what you were going to wear the next day. Actually, you didn't recall anything you'd packed, so you'd have to either thank or rebuke your past self for whatever outfit you'd thrown together for the trip.

Staring blankly at your notebooks, you realized you didn't have much of a creative muse at the moment. You almost started flipping through some of your older entries before a piece of paper under your sketchbook caught your eye.

It was a yellowed piece of what looked like parchment—was it really what you thought it was? Grinning again, you pulled it carefully out from under the books and held it carefully in your hands.

Meadow Sonnet in B Minor floated across the top of the page in swirly letters, a part for flute. It was your favorite piece—one composed by your brother himself. You were certain he had the violin part in his possession. It was a habit of his to age the parchment and make it appear older than it was, though this wasn't the case with this paper. It was, in fact, nearly 15 years old, written on already-old parchment. He'd composed the simple duet a long while back, and it was your favorite piece to play.

While Sherlock had inherited the most musical talent, you weren't bad yourself. A person of the arts, you'd been playing the flute since high school. You'd never composed anything good, but you could play written notes without much trouble. Sherlock was the genius in this aspect of things.

Sadly, it had been forever since you'd picked up a musical instrument, and you weren't certain you could play without quite a bit of practice. You put the paper gently down and began flipping through the beginnings of your notebooks. Most of your early works were from a couple years ago, and you had to resist the urge to rewrite awkward prose and unrealistic dialogue.

Your watch read 4:15 am. It was going to be a long morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I get an honest opinion? Did I just make the reader a Sue?
> 
> I've been trying to make the reader a little different from the other average ones, but did I screw up? I feel like perhaps being both writing and musically talented is too much. What to doooooo?


	7. Chapter 7

John was surprised to see you awake and alert, sipping coffee while scrolling through something on a laptop he assumed was yours.

"Hey," you glanced up briefly before looking back down at the screen.

"Good morning." John's voice wasn't groggy, leading you to deduce that he was an early riser much unlike yourself, with the exception of this morning. You always tended to wake up after the hospital drugs were no longer affecting your system, which was regrettably early.

"Been up since 4. It's hard to sleep with so many broken bones," you laughed. You'd changed since waking up, having spent about an hour trying to rifle through your suitcase and pull clothing on without leaving your wheelchair. You now wore a pair of faded jeans and an old flannel shirt that was much too big for you.

"Ah—Sorry you had to be up so early." John fiddled with his watch for a moment and headed into the kitchen. "Right then. Tea or coffee?"

"I'll take a coffee, if that's alright. Actually, I should probably just make it myself since I tend to use a lot of cream. No one else can make it right." You laughed again and wheeled past John into the kitchen to start on the coffee.

John blinked. You seemed so much more... casual. Now that you weren't jacked up on morphine you were less jumpy and a lot more relaxed, though still with the same charming cheerfulness that intrigued him. He had to do a bit of a double take before he decided he liked you better when you weren't being altered by a considerable amount of medication.

"Are you having coffee or tea?" You turned your body in your chair to look at him, twisting around a little uncomfortably.

"Ah, tea actually." As soon as he'd said this he realized you were going to make tea for him, so he quickly added, "I'll make it myself, though, so it's alright."

"I guess we're both just getting our own drinks then," you remarked with a smirk, switching on the coffee pot.

"How are your legs feeling?" John asked once both of you were sitting at the table sipping your drinks.

"Fine, thank you doctor," you groaned. "No, actually they hurt a lot. I don't really want to take any ibuprofen or anything yet, though, so I can wait. It's not unbearable. Man, falling off of buildings sure is harder than it looks." It seemed you were quite full of wisecracks when not under the effects of morphine. Almost reading John's mind, you smirked again like the smart alec you were.

"Well, we've got some medicine in the cabinet in Sherlock's bathroom if you need it. Just be careful and read the labels because it's very easy to mistake Sherlock's poisons and such for medication."

Instead of laughing like he thought you might, you frowned. "You make it sound like you're going somewhere. Did you get a case?"

"No, actually, I just have to go to work. Sherlock will probably be at home unless he's needed at a crime scene, so you'll still have company, though." John felt a little bad for leaving you at home alone with your brother who you'd just had an argument with, but to his surprise your countenance lit up at this prospect.

"Really? Great! I can't wait to tell him about the stuff I've been doing since I last saw him. It's been two years, you know, and I've added at least twelve new stamps to my passport last I checked. He'll probably have already guessed at least three of them since they're fairly obvious, but the rest will take him awhile. D'you think he can do it in the order I visited?" You grinned, looking up at John like an excited child.

"Ah, well, I'm sure he'll do a decent job. I have no idea where you've been, though, so I wouldn't say it was obvious," John said slowly, scanning your face for a possible sign of your previous destinations. If you were a Holmes, you were bound to be rather intelligent.

"No, it's not that obvious," you admitted, "but it will be to Sherlock. I have no idea what he'll find obvious about any of it, but odds are he'll guess them all. Maybe I have hay that only grows in Israel on my shirt or something."

This remark made you both crack up, a rare occurrence for anyone at six o'clock in the morning.

 

It saddened you a little to see John leave for work—despite being a doctor, he was friendly and had a neat sense of humor. You could tell he'd be easy to get along with and looked forward to getting to know him a bit better.

It was nearly an hour later at around 7:30 when Sherlock stumbled out of his room in a bit of a haze. You almost groaned aloud; two early risers? How were you going to get any sleep once you started back on your regular routine? Actually, you should have remembered that Sherlock tended to get up earlier than usual—you recalled it now with a mental sigh.

"I presume you still like your coffee the same way?" You glanced up at Sherlock, who nodded, and you wheeled your chair around to pour him a cup with two sugar cubes. "Man, I've been gone for a long time."

Sherlock didn't say anything for a moment as he took a sip of his coffee. "Quite. You've been to twelve countries and stayed in two of them for extended amounts of time."

You squinted, trying to remember. "Um... yeah. Pretty good. Which countries, though?" A playful grin made its way into your face.

"Lebanon, Saudi Arabia, and Syria. You've been to Afghanistan and India as well. And... China, I believe, as well as France and also London, which you failed to notify me of as it was six months ago."

"Sorry about that. I wasn't allowed to let anyone know I was in the country for some dumb reason," you admitted, a hint of annoyance in your tone. "Yeah, you're right about all the countries so far."

"Let's see... Canada and America as well, and then Vietnam. But the last one is giving me some trouble. I have no idea." Sherlock thought long and hard before looking up at you expectantly.

"Oh! Uhh, gosh, where did I go? I was hoping you'd tell me since I kinda forgot." You wrinkled your forehead. "Right! I was in North Korea!"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Hm? Ah, yes, I should have seen it. Your jacket was folded rather than rolled in your suitcase."

You rolled your eyes. "Say—how'd you find my stuff, anyways?"

"Simple," Sherlock shrugged, "I asked around at the few hotels nearby. Your keycard was in your pocket when you fell, so I simply showed it to them and eventually someone identified you and your room."

"Oh. Well, thanks." You'd been expecting a long chase, but it was, in fact, something you could have accomplished on your own. "Where was I staying?"

"Andrew's." It was a small bed-and-breakfast sort of place. You often stayed there when you were in town. The owners were quite friendly, and you knew them well enough to drop in without a reservation at a moment's notice.

"Hmm." You frowned. Nothing triggered any memories, and you were impatient to get them back. You could vaguely recall checking in, but you weren't sure if it was simply a memory from a previous stay or not.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

"Oh, um, fine," you lied. To tell the truth, your legs were killing you, but you didn't want to take any medicine just yet. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

"By the way," you said a little quieter, "I got your apology. I forgive you, you idiot." It seemed as though this had taken an enormous pressure off Sherlock—he looked visibly relieved. You laughed and grabbed your mug to fill it with more coffee.

A text ringtone went off, and since you didn't have a phone on you, you assumed it was Sherlock's. When you turned around with your extremely creamy coffee in hand, he was getting up from the table and heading quickly towards his room. You glanced at his phone on the table.

Check email ASAP. New case. -GL

You grinned at the prospect of something to keep your brother occupied. He'd be so much happier with a good murder to focus on. Ironically, you hated violence, but were willing to help out on cases as long as it was merely investigation and not a mission or something involving weapons.

"(F/n), I'm heading over to Scotland Yard. Inspector Lestrade just texted, said he had a case. I'll be back later." Ah, Sherlock, ever the vague man. You sighed as he threw on his long coat over his pyjamas and scurried down the stairs.

It looked like you were in for a lonely morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmm, that loneliness.  
> And you get to be stuck in the house for the case. What fun. Plus more mystery about what the heck is your job.  
> Don't worry, you'll get your John back soon! Just as soon as he finishes work and helping Sherlock with a case.


	8. Chapter 8

"Sherlock, (f/n)?" John stepped into the flat, confused at the silence. It seemed no one was at home—but obviously you couldn't have gone out. Perhaps Sherlock had found something to do, but would he really have gone to all the trouble to get you down the stairs.

"We're down here, dear," Mrs. Hudson called, startling John for a moment before he set down his briefcase and came down the stairs. Even more startling, however, was the sight of you sitting contentedly in Mrs. Hudson's flat with a cup of tea in your hands.

"Hey, John! You're back! I was really, really bored so I came down here to see if Mrs. Hudson wanted some company." He recalled you saying you'd never been in a wheelchair for this long before. How in the world had you gotten down? Surely Sherlock wouldn't have done something like this.

"How did you—Did Sherlock... When did...?" John wondered aloud.

"Oh," you laughed, "Sherlock got a text from Lestrade so he's been out all day, probably investigating something. I tried drawing, but I'm not left-handed, so I came down here."

"Yeah—but how? You said you'd never been in a wheelchair this long!" If anything now, John was a bit frustrated you'd attempted something this dangerous on your own.

You laughed again before continuing, "I googled it. You kind of pop a wheelie and just grab onto the handrails. That was hard with one broken wrist, but I managed. Just because I haven't been in a wheelchair for a long time doesn't mean I've never used one. I once won a wheelchair race when I was in the hospital after coming back from—from holiday. And they just happened to have it while I was there, so I entered and I won! I had no idea I was that fast! It was so cool! I think I still have the trophy somewhere—"

"Alright, so you got down. But it was very dangerous! Don't try it again! What if you'd toppled over backwards or slipped on the stairs?"

"John, dear, it's alright. I'm certain she knew the dangers of her actions," Mrs. Hudson interrupted kindly, vouching for your slightly annoyed face.

"I certainly did. I even threw some pillows at the bottom in case I fell."

"Bloody good that'll do..." John muttered, shuffling his feet. 

"Well, as it turns out I'm pretty good at popping wheelies, and my arm strength is awesome, so I'm fine." You pointed your nose in the air rather haughtily, and it took all John's effort to keep from laughing.

"Now, would you like something to drink, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked John.

"Ah, sure, as long as you don't mind."

"Oh, not at all, John! Why, (f/n) and I are rather full now, so we'll let you try and finish some of the scones." Mrs. Hudson showed him inside and poured him a cup of tea.

After a moment of quiet, you and Mrs. Hudson resumed speaking.

"So anyways, what were you saying about your husband, Mrs. Hudson?" you asked.

"Ah, yes. He ran a drug cartel, dear."

Your face sobered. "Oh. I'm terribly sorry. Was he... arrested?"

"Yes, he was—and don't be sorry, dear, our relationship was purely physical, like I've told John here." Mrs. Hudson smiled warmly. Your face went from concerned to mildly revolted, and John's was similar as he recalled the memory.

"Hm, yeah, okay." You cleared your throat. John sniggered at your uncomfortable position, and you shot him a glare which made him chuckle all the more.

"Are you in a relationship with anyone?" Mrs. Hudson asked you. It surprised John to see you talking so casually with the landlady you'd only just met some time this morning. Perhaps you were more casual around strange women than strange men, because you certainly hadn't struck up any of these sorts of conversations with him, or even Sherlock for that matter.

You shook your head. "No. I don't really have time for that sort of thing. My job takes me everywhere, you know, so I just don't have time to settle anywhere."

"Well, it looks like you'll be here for a while. You might try finding a nice, young Englishman while you're here," Mrs. Hudson looked very indiscreetly at John.

You both cleared your throats at the same time and glanced away from each other while the kind old woman was oblivious to it all. "Well, you see, I'm, um... I don't have much experience, and I doubt anyone would want to date someone in a wheelchair. Too much work. And... well..." You realized you had no excuses.

"Oh, nonsense, dear. You're very charming. I'm sure you'll have plenty of suitors!" You went a deep shade of red and continued to refrain from glancing in John's direction. A man really shouldn't be listening to these sorts of conversations.

"I appreciate the compliment, but I'm just... not really interested in dating at the moment. I don't think my job would really allow time for it." You took a sip of tea.

"Oh, heavens! I haven't asked you what your job is, dear! Might I inquire?" Mrs. Hudson looked at you eagerly. John leaned forward to catch your response—Sherlock had been rather shady about it when he'd asked.

"Oh, I'm working with the government," you answered smoothly, "They have me travel all over the place." John noted with a hint of annoyance that you hadn't said _what_ you were doing in the government. For all he knew, you could be MI6 or some other secret position. Actually, looking at your older brother Mycroft, that might not be far from the truth.

"That sounds very exciting! Do you ever get to see your brother, Mycroft?" The landlady went to pour herself another cup of tea while you answered.

"Yeah, actually, I do see him quite often," you smiled, clearly thinking of your brother. "He's in charge of my division. It's a little weird, since he's like my boss. Actually, he's almost everyone's boss."

This made both John and Mrs. Hudson laugh. "Does he give you your assignments at his warehouse?" John asked.

"No, not usually. I've been dragged there once or twice, like when he needed to tell me about Sherlock's indefinite disappearance. It's never work-related, though."

You said this so casually that it made John laugh again. "You say this like it's a regular thing. Does he often drag friends and family over there?"

"Yeah, actually. I'm not really scared of black vans pulling up behind me anymore, which might not be a good thing in some situations," you admitted, ducking behind a strand of your just-past-shoulder-length hair.

"No, I don't think that would be good," he chuckled.

" _No_ , it's a _great_ habit," you rolled your eyes sarcastically with a grin plastered on your face. The three of you continued to make small talk that you found, surprisingly, fun.

This was the way Sherlock found you, laughing and joking, when he threw the door open to 221B Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, wonderful filler and bonding with Mrs. Hudson. I honestly love that woman.
> 
> Now for excitement with Sherly and a cool case.


	9. Chapter 9

"John! Case!" Sherlock barked, not even closing the door behind him. It was now that you realized it was pouring rain outside, the sound of water pounding the street outside rushing in with the sudden cold.

"Can I go? Please?" you sat up eagerly, putting your half-finished tea on the table and rolling hurriedly past Mrs. Hudson. John was already dashing up the stairs to grab a rain jacket.

Sherlock gave you a once-over, his eyes inquiring as to how exactly you'd managed to get down the stairs, but said nothing about it. "As long as you can keep up."

"Yes!" You grinned like a small child and nearly went out the door into the pouring rain before John stopped you.

"Wait! You need a—a jacket or something, don't you?" You swiveled around and pointed a finger in the air.

"Right! Ah... Sherly, can you get it for me? It's at the top of my suitcase." You looked sheepishly at your brother.

"He is most certainly not going to track water into the flat," John cried indignantly, starting up the stairs himself. "I'll get it."

"Oh, uh, thanks John." You prayed to whatever powers were out there that you didn't have anything embarrassing near the top of your bags. You couldn't remember if you'd packed away everything near the bottom or not.

Luckily, John came back down the stairs straightaway holding your navy blue rain jacket without any trace of mortification on his face.

"Alright, let's go," he said, handing you your jacket which you promptly shrugged on. Sherlock reached inside to grab an umbrella from the holder by the door, and once you got your wheelchair down the short flight of steps, you were off.

Being pushed in a wheelchair slowed everyone down considerably, you noticed. Subconsciously, you ducked your head a little.

"A-are we going to have to walk?" you asked, worried.

Sherlock shook his head. "I walked from there to here. It was faster by alleyway than by cab."

You continued down the road, getting soaked but not really caring. You were careful not to soak the cast on your right arm as not to ruin it, but the rest of you seemed to be fair game as the wind whipped your hair into your face, and the rain soaked seemingly every bone in your body. However, while your brother and John shivered, you felt exhilaration. It had been ages since you'd been outside in the fresh air like this, and you were loving every minute of it. A grin stuck to your face as you raced along the sidewalk, being pushed rather quickly by Sherlock. 

It seemed only a few moments later that you arrived, thoroughly soaked, at a small flat not far away from where you'd fallen onto the ground. It was John who'd pointed this out, and you noted curiously that it was quite a ways away from the hotel you'd been staying in.

"Sherlock, John, come on in—(f/n)! It's so good to see you! How've you been? Are you alright?" Inspector Greg Lestrade greeted you at the door and broke into a wide smile upon catching sight of you. You hadn't seen him in a little over two years as well, and it was nice to meet up with him again. He was very friendly, you thought.

"Hey, Greg! I'm doing well! I kind of fell off a building, but other than that I'm great, actually!" You smiled back as you wheeled yourself into the house, observing it as you went. You were no detective, but growing up with two genius brothers certainly instilled habits in you.

"Hey! (F/n)!" Another familiar voice caught your ears.

"Sally! How are you?" To John's utter surprise, you embraced Sally Donovan from your wheelchair as best you could and grinned at her.

"I'm fine—but look at you! What in the world happened?"

"Well, I fell off a building. I don't remember why because I hit my head and have a concussion or something. But I'm fine!" You laughed, and Sally just shook her head. 

"Only you could do something like that, couldn't you? Ah, well—so what are your thoughts on the case?" Sally inquired. You frowned at swiveled around to Sherlock.

"Sherly—uh, Sherlock? What exactly is the case about? You never bothered to explain why you dragged us out into the rain." You crossed your arms and frowned at him.

"Ah, right. This is the home of a government official. Her bookshelf has been stolen, one with some important documents—but what's interesting is that the thief left behind a note that none of us can decipher. It's nonsense." Your brother did look truly baffled.

"Sure, let me take a look at it." You moved to follow Sherlock to where most of the people there were standing over the kitchen table. However, John stopped you.

"Hey, uh—you seem to be on really friendly terms with Sally. But Sherlock hates her. D'you mind me asking why?" You blinked for a moment, thrown off by this rather random question.

"Oh, well, my brother is a bit of a prat. He's always being rather blunt and given her quite enough reason to hate him. It's not really my problem. We've been good friends for a long time," you said, smiling in the woman's direction. John nodded, still puzzled. You marveled for a moment at this new flatmate who seemed to focus on minor, silly details. How did Sherlock stand him?

"So, where's this note?" You called loudly above the chatter in the next room. Most of the people turned around and parted a little for you to make your way through to the table. Stacks of paper littered the surface of it, but a piece of paper lay in the middle. You pulled it a little closer with your fingertips and read.

'Candy apples are delicious, aren't they? But I prefer them sliced, no sugar.'

Your breath caught in your throat. You felt a scream make its way through your body, but it refused to leave. Terror, panic flooded you. Suddenly you remembered.

"Sherlock, John, we're leaving. I know who took the bookcase, okay? But we need to go."

"What?" Sherlock looked up, unsettled by your abrupt and calm voice. John, however, didn't ask any questions. You were a Holmes, and he was used to abrupt orders that were generally right.

"Come on, Sherlock. W-we have to go."

Something in John made him come up beside you. He recognized the look in your eyes—he saw it in the mirror every morning. Haunted, terrified, but restrained. "It's going to be okay. Whatever is scaring you won't hurt you, I promise. Sherlock and I will keep you safe. No one is going to hurt you. It's alright."

He placed a hand on your shoulder, and you let out a shaky breath.

"I'm sorry," you whispered. "I wasn't good enough. This is about me."

"Whatever it is, it's not your fault. Don't say that. You're okay." To outsiders, it appeared that John was trying to comfort a completely normal and happy person. Your face was calm and collected, and you were looking confidently ahead. 

But your eyes. They were terrified. John could see your hands shaking and knew you were quite possibly on the verge of a panic attack.

"Sherlock, we need to take her home," John said with the cool authority of a doctor. He rubbed your shoulder gently, and it seemed to relax you a little. Your breaths came shallow and raspy.

Sherlock nodded and excused himself. The others in the room could only watch with concern as they watched you set down the note onto the table and numbly turn around.

"I-it's okay everyone. I know who did it, and they're not after you. It's alright. Just—just don't worry. I'll t-try and stop it."

You closed your trembling lips and numbly let John wheel you out of the house into the pouring rain. This time, the rain didn't exhilarate you; it merely gave you something else to try and concentrate on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well panic attacks are always fun. At least you've got a John to help you.


	10. Chapter 10

"I-I'm alright," you breathed shakily once you found yourself wrapped in a blanket on the couch. Once the memories had stopped flooding your consciousness, you found you could relax a little. Adrenaline and panic still laced your veins and kept you stiff and nervous, but the tea was helping.

"Did the note trigger something?" John asked cautiously. You nodded.

"I think so. Yeah. I remember why I was in Lo—Sherlock! I remember why I was in London!" Your voice was not that of excitement, however. A new trace of concern hid in its tone. Your brother looked up from the article he was reading.

"Well?"

"I—I, uh... John, this is about my work, and I'm not sure if... Well, never mind. You can stay, this involves Sherlock so it will probably involve you. Sherlock, that note is from someone I've met before. That's not why I thought I came to London, but now I'm sure it's the same person as the one who called me a week ago." Your voice dropped an octave, and your eyes showed a true fear. "Sherlock, they told me you were in danger. They warned me that... that something was going to happen and it was going to be my fault. They didn't say what, but you're not safe. B-believe me. If it's the same person, you're in mortal danger."

"When did you meet this person before?" Sherlock asked, and you could see he was choosing his words carefully. You closed your eyes for a moment, steeling yourself. You weren't going to panic again.

"I met him at work, Sherlock. I had to talk things through with him."

"And did you?"

Your lip trembled. Sherlock always knew which questions needed asking.

"No. It didn't work. We lost 15 civilians, and it's my fault. Now something is going to happen again." Your lower lip began trembling again and you took a deep breath to steady it. The event had happened a year ago, and it was time you'd moved on from it.

After a minute or so of concentrated silences in which Sherlock continued reading an article while you closed your eyes and breathed deeply, John stood up, a little unnerved.

"Would you like some soup, (f/n)? I found some leftovers in the back of the fridge."

You nodded gratefully. "Yeah, thanks."

"Do you need me to tell Lestrade?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Could you? I don't want to keep crying like this. It's not like me, and we both know it." You mustered a weak grin.

"Shall I tell John your occupation? He appears to be rather confused."

"No. No, I can tell him myself." You brushed your hair out of your eyes and looked out at the living room for the first time since arriving home. You almost smiled when you saw the skull sitting on the mantle once more. "So, I see you haven't gotten rid of Mr. Frankie."

"Do not call it that," Sherlock whispered hotly, "John might hear."

"Oh, I already told him. It was when I was drugged, mind you, so it wasn't really my fault." A playful smile flickered over your face as Sherlock put his head in his hands in mock-depression. He sighed, straightened up, and stood.

"I'll go call Lestrade and fill him in on what you've observed."

"Alright. Thanks." Sherlock grunted a reply and walked into the kitchen towards the hall just as John stepped out, holding a bowl of what smelled like chicken soup. You breathed in the scent and took it from him gratefully. "Thanks to you too, John."

"No problem," John smiled and looked away for a moment, turning his armchair so that it would be facing slightly more in your direction. He sat down and gave a small sigh.

"I suppose you're wondering what my job is? I may not be as observant as my brothers, but one grows used to endless analyzing." You realized it had come out rather snappy and much ruder than you'd intended, but John seemed used to your brother's even more blunt observations. He merely looked at you, though surprised, and nodded.

"Yeah, well you see—I'm a hostage dealer. I'm the person that goes in and has to reason with the crazies and the desperate. I deal with sociopaths, schizophrenics, terrorists, and suicidal people. I have to talk them out of things and make deals. Stuff like this happens all over the world, and I get called in. It takes months sometimes, for the really bad cases." You closed your eyes again for a moment, as though to collect yourself. Understanding dawned on John.

"So—so that's what you meant when you said—when you said 15 civilians were..." You cut him off with a wave of your hand.

"Yeah. Yeah, sorry. It's hard to think about some of those things because what if—"

"No, stop it." You looked up in surprise. John seemed so placid most of the time, and it startled you to see his face stern and heavy-set, looking at you. "Stop that. As an army doctor I know exactly what's going through your head, and you can't afford to go into the 'what-ifs.' There will always be someone you can't save, and it is never your fault. Don't think like that."

You were quiet for a moment, deep in thought. You'd had therapists and others tell you the same thing, but it had never meant anything to you because they had no idea. No one had any idea what it was like to be the cause of someone's death. It was like second-hand murder, as you liked to call it. So many deaths could have been prevented, if only—you caught yourself. Coming from John, this meant a little more. From the firmness in his voice to the hardness in his eyes, you could see he might be reliving some event of war or tragedy, something he blamed himself for.

It felt... nice. Nice to meet someone who'd had their fair share of death and actually felt guilty or at fault for some of it, unlike the austere and cold brothers you'd grown up with. You loved them to pieces, but at times they just didn't understand what it was like to feel things the way you did. Being a girl and also someone with minimal intelligence set you a slight ways apart from both Mycroft and Sherlock. It was hard to cope sometimes.

"Thank you, John," you murmured, stirring your soup with your spoon while waiting for it to cool off. Things were quiet and thoughtful for a few moments before Sherlock walked into the room, holding his mobile in his hand.

"Would you like to wait to speak with Lestrade?" he asked.

"Yeah. I'd rather wait until I'm not an emotional train wreck," you smiled a little. Though you could hold yourself together fairly well around strangers, people you knew and were close to were harder to talk to without becoming upset. You were a little tired now after dealing with repressed memories and a lot of stress, and you weren't sure how well you would handle reliving them another time today.

Then, Sherlock was gone again and you closed your eyes once more—this time not from pain, but exhaustion. It was only 5:30 in the evening, but waking up early and emotional trauma didn't help one's energy levels, you figured.

"If you don't mind, I'm probably going to try and sleep a little now. I'm pretty tired," you said to John, who was still deep in thought in his armchair.

"Hmm? Oh, sure. Go ahead," he smiled and seemed to snap from his thoughts. He got up and nudged his chair back to where it had been before, then decided to go up the stairs to his own room for something. You yawned and managed to lift yourself out of the wheelchair on your own onto the couch. Too lazy to put on proper pyjamas, you tugged the blanket over your shoulders and retreated into a calm, dreamless slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so your supermegafoxyawesomehot career is revealed.


	11. Chapter 11

Once John reached his room, he closed the door behind him and sighed. He needed to get ready for going out—he'd found a date to take to a new museum exhibit. It seemed a little boring, but perhaps something fun might come out of it if the woman was nice enough.

He wasn't worried about the date, however—he was a little more worried about you. Your career had startled him. It was something that required patience, negotiation, and a lot of time. As a Holmes, he'd expected you to be brash and hurried, but it seemed that perhaps you hadn't received the family bug of genius. You were so... ordinary. In a fascinating, beautiful sort of way. He felt like perhaps he needed to get to know you better and find out what you were really like—he felt almost guilty for having made a snap-judgement without thinking by simply classifying you as a Holmes.

You showed no signs of having such an oppressive job. That's what worried him, though—it seemed you weren't able to vent stress to anyone except perhaps government-supplied therapists or something inadequate. Carrying the kind of guilt someone in your line of work would inevitably have was lethal—he knew from experience. There were so many deaths he wished he'd been able to prevent, and the memories nearly triggered a panic attack in him, as well. He could relate to you and your level of thinking; he knew you were blaming yourself, and it hurt him to see that. You needed someone to talk to about this that you trusted. He hoped your psychological health wouldn't suffer as much as his had.

You just... needed to stop blaming yourself. It might take you years, he thought sadly. It had taken him almost longer.

After putting on some nicer clothes, John came down the stairs to see you already fast asleep, drool dripping from the corner of your mouth as you slept. He stopped for a moment and took time to look at your face, peaceful and slackened in the evening sun. It was like watching a child sleep, he thought. It made a part of him happy to see you finally at peace with the world and getting the rest you needed. Another part of him felt nervous, like watching you sleep was something a little dangerous to be caught doing. He dismissed this thought rapidly and stepped quietly into the kitchen to locate Sherlock. He was sitting at the crowded table typing something up and taking notes on paper.

"Sherlock, I've got a date—can you stay behind and make sure (f/n) isn't alone?" John asked. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked at him inquisitively. "Just—if she needs someone when she wakes up. It might be hard for her after all this to wake up alone. I speak from experience here."

"I'll see to it that I'm there for her when she wakes up," Sherlock said, a touch of understand dawning in his eyes. John knew how terrifying waking up alone could be sometimes.

"Yeah. Er... thanks." John gave a small wave and turned to leave the flat.

 

It was past midnight when John returned to 221B. His date, Hannah, had been fun—actually, she was a lot nicer than any of the dates he'd had in previous months. He had her number and had decided he might call her back. Though tired, he was in a fairly good mood as he stepped into the flat. What he didn't expect to hear was the sound of music floating down the stairs softly. 

Sherlock was playing the violin, and accompanying him was a flute. As he came to the top of the stairs, he saw you playing alongside your brother with a familiar tune he'd heard Sherlock play before. You were a bit shaky, stumbling over notes here and there, but you looked quite happy to be playing through music. It seemed that Sherlock had written duets to most of his composed music for you.

"John! You're back! How was it?" Once your piece had finished you'd looked around only to see him standing at the top of the stairs, listening.

"It was fun," said John, smiling. In truth, he was still a bit disappointed, but finding a perfect date was near impossible.

"Cool. I woke up a few hours ago and decided to try honing my rapidly fading flute skills. It's been fun, but I hope Mrs. Hudson doesn't mind." Your face was concerned for a moment before popping back to happiness again. "By the way, tomorrow we're going on a trip."

"What?" John and Sherlock asked at the same time.

"I decided we should have a little fun instead of going over case after case. That's boring. Sorry, Sherlock—but I decided I'm going to take you guys to cool places in London. You know, for a little day-long break. It might refresh our minds a little and then I can get back to solving the case." You took a deep breath and grinned. Sherlock said nothing but merely looked at you.

"Sounds fun," John offered.

"If we're in mortal peril, what good will going to the zoo do?" Sherlock asked.

"We're not in mortal peril yet. That comes later. We can all use a day off, Sherlock—I don't think one eensy little day is going to hurt us. Believe me, I know who's doing this. He's deliberate and slow. We'll see most of it coming." It was surprising to John that you'd gotten over the high emotions that had been running just hours earlier. Though perhaps, he thought, you were very good at hiding things and suppressing them. That might be concerning—but it would do you a lot of good to have a more relaxing day.

"I think it sounds like a great idea," he said, looking at Sherlock to see his flatmate's reaction. Sherlock only looked at you, nodded, and set his lips together in a tight line.

"Aww, come on Sherly. It'll be fun. Besides, I need a day off. I haven't had such a long break in years. Do it for me?" You pleaded with your eyes, making a goofy sort of puppy-dog face that contrasted your angular Holmes features in a striking way. John chuckled a little, but you kept up your facade.

"Augh, alright, alright! Just—just stop that," Sherlock gave you what seemed to be a feeble form of a playful shove.

"What was that?" You cackled and punched your brother in the arm. John realized, a little late, that you must have gotten over your argument from the other night. He mentally smacked himself for the umpteenth time for not paying enough attention.

"So..." You trailed off, looking as though you almost wanted to keep talking to people but weren't sure what to say. Your long hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail and your chin-length bangs were tucked behind your ears, the occasional strand coming loose and hanging in your face. You'd pulled on an overlarge, rather ugly-looking pink and purple jumper that appeared to have been knitted for you by a relative or something, and seemed quite chipper. A night owl, John guessed.

"I'm going to bed," Sherlock announced dully. You checked your watch.

"Oh, it's past midnight. Wow. Yeah, we're probably all tired. Except me, but that's usual I guess. Never tired at night," you chattered. John almost smiled when his prediction was correct. You were a night owl.

"Alright then—goodnight everyone, I suppose." John turned to go up the stairs to his own quarters.

"Night Sherly!" you sang. "Night John!"

 

Why saying goodnight felt a little strange, you didn't know. Probably because you'd not uttered the words in who-knows-how-long. No one to say goodnight to, really. It felt nice, though. You wished you'd been able to say it to your older brothers more often.

Your job was a taxing one, you thought not for the first time that day. You were away from family for so long, and sometimes you'd stay cooped up in a building for weeks or months on end. There was the blaming, the guilt, and the new fears. Claustrophobia. Low self-esteem. It was taxing—but it was worth it when you could negotiate and save the lives of thousands of people with your gift for words. Well, not words necessarily; it was more like empathy. Quite easy for you to put yourself in others' shoes, so to speak. You'd picked up Sherlock's lack of this trait somewhere along the way. Even the crazy people had a reason, and if you could find it and target it, you might be able to bring them down.

It had really helped when John told you not to blame yourself—not the advice itself, you supposed, but the feeling behind it. Like maybe he understood where you were coming from—like everyone was telling you it wasn't your fault when they would never understand how you actually felt. Someone finally getting where you were at in this point in time was almost a relief.

It was getting slowly easier to brush the topic of failures on the job, but things were still hard. You shoved the old, troubling thoughts from your mind; practice made this skill of thought-shoving easy. You closed your eyes and suddenly found that you were tired again. Maybe you'd sleep through until a decent hour, like 11 am or 12. You realized you still needed to put away your flute, so you did so begrudgingly, being careful to clean it out before putting it away in its faded leather case.

Getting in and out of the wheelchair was growing less difficult now, and you found that you could use the plastic bit of the cast around your thumb to lift some of your weight. It was miserable to be so confined, but as long as you could move around you supposed it was good enough. Suddenly, you remembered that the next day—or was it today since it was past midnight?—was when you were going to go sightseeing a little. You'd decided spontaneously, but you felt like you needed a break, having just fallen off a building for an unknown reason that was possibly work-related. You fell asleep wondering about the aerodynamics of falling and whether John would go with you to the petting zoo or not since Sherlock wouldn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I'm so sorry about the quality of this and all the internal monologues. Not my best work, but mostly some filler to move the story along.  
> Next chapter=random fluff and things while sightseeing London. Because you haven't seen any of regular England in a while, and I needed to find a better way to do the thing called "the bonding."


	12. Chapter 12

"Sherly, wake up! Wake up! Come on!" You barely resisted the urge to leap onto your poor formerly-sleeping brother's bed, realizing that jumping out of your wheelchair was impossible. 

"Don't ever drink coffee so early in the morning again, (f/n)." Sherlock groaned and rolled over in bed.

"Why not? You don't want to see me without it. John doesn't even have a fair warning as to what to expect, and we can't scare him can we? I better go wake him up." Without another word, you wheeled out of the room, leaving the door wide open. Begrudgingly, Sherlock fell out of bed and stumbled over to the door to close it. Half-lying on the floor, he wondered whether you'd opened the door so wide on purpose, if only to get him out of bed.

Meanwhile, you found yourself in a predicament. You were unable to get up the stairs to John's room, and somehow you felt too uncomfortable to call up the stairs to him. You nearly turned around to get Sherlock to wake him when John himself came stumbling down the stairs, blinking sleep from his eyes.

"Oh, hey John! I was just going to get Sherlock to get you. We're starting early today." You grinned, but John only looked confused and a little sleepy. Your expression changed to a concerned one. "Did you sleep alright?"

"No... no, not really. What are we doing today, again?" he asked, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck.

"I was going to take you guys to a park, the zoo, and someplace to eat; just for fun, I mean. But are you sure you're alright? Did you even sleep at all?" You looked with concern at John, whose eyes cleared a little.

"Oh, right. You said that last night. Sorry—yeah, I didn't get a lot of sleep. Happens sometimes. I'll be alright, I just need some tea or something..." He sighed a little and headed towards the kitchen.

"Oh believe me, I know how you feel. Sherlock was just saying—well, no, he was mumbling—that I shouldn't ever have coffee early in the morning, but I think he forgot how awful I am most mornings, like believe me, you don't want to know how terrible it is when I'm not jacked up on insane levels of caffeine. You caught me on a good day yesterday, but literally _any_ other day I'm pretty much a zombie without coffee, so it's a good thing I set an alarm really early so I had time to make it, right? It's a good thing you didn't have to see me in non-coffee mode, though, since the energy boost I get right after is a little better than not being able to speak at all. Hah, seriously it's pretty bad, but you wouldn't guess because _now_ I've got loads of energy, and sadly it's going to go away after a—"

"(F/n), please shut up." Sherlock stood groggily in the doorway to the kitchen. 

"Right, sorry," you chirped. "Oh crap, now I'm really tired." You slumped in your chair and let your eyes droop shut for a moment before sitting up again, this time with a bit of a slouch.

"Please. Never drink coffee this early in the morning. You forgot what happened last time with Mycroft and the flowers, didn't you?"

You paled. "Crap. Crap. Don't remind me. Actually, do remind me so I don't do it again. No more coffee."

By this time, John had finished throwing together the hot water and black tea bag. He sat down heavily at a chair and took a small sip of his tea, seemingly oblivious to the siblings' exchange. You glanced over at him with a hint of concern.

"You alive, John?"

John grunted and took another swig from the steaming mug.

"If you're tired, you don't have to come. This is mostly for my sake, anyways—I need to get out of the house long enough to relax a little." You sighed a little wistfully and rolled back from the table.

"No, no, I want to come—sorry, just groggy. I'll be fine in a moment."

"Am I exempt from this outing of yours?" Sherlock asked almost hopefully.

"No, silly. It's your own fault if you decided to stay up late. You're coming," you smirked. "First stop is a park not far from here. Let me lead the way."

 

It was early enough that the sun hadn't risen yet. My butts loomed dark and grey over the city, glowing a faint orange to reflect the lights below. The air was crisp and more refreshing than anything you'd smelled in a long time, and your breaths were deep and deliberate. Few cars passed, and the road itself was quiet and resting this morning, light and eager with the decrease in traffic and pedestrians.

You'd have given anything to be walking this morning, to feel the concrete firm beneath your feet and to kick off your shoes and race through the grass still slightly damp with dew. The fresh air was enough to satisfy most of the longing, but you were irked more than you let on about being unable to walk.

"Just around this corner," you said after a while. This park had been your sanctuary in the mornings when you'd lived here in London. Your house had been quite near to it, and you'd walked there every morning you could. It had a name, but you couldn't remember what the sign had said before the letters had peeled off beyond recognition.

You reached the corner, turning, and saw the grassy open field surrounded by a thin stretch of forest. In the corner of the small field was a slightly rusty old playground, still in relatively good condition. Later in the afternoons, the area was completely packed; now, though, in the early hours before hardly anyone was awake, the paths around the field were empty and peaceful. You sighed aloud in contentment, bringing your hands to the wheels of your chair and zooming ahead. Sherlock huffed and let you go ahead.

The cool wind blew your hair back, and the speed gave you an exhilarating feeling that you'd missed while gone. It was quiet and still and grey. A small laugh escaped your lips as you sped along the sturdy cement path that curved away into the woods next to the grassy plane. You were in the biting fresh morning air, and suddenly you couldn't imagine living without this sort of outdoor pleasure. The outdoors gave you simple joy and inspiration. You'd missed this.

 

"Are you going to slow down and wait for us anytime soon?" You grinned at the slightly tired and panting tone of Sherlock's voice, and you swiveled around to see the small figures of he and John making their way along the path at a brisk pace to catch up. You wheeled towards them, panting a little yourself from the effort of pushing yourself along.

"Sorry. It's nice to be outside for once. It's been a while." Sherlock merely nodded, but John gave you an almost sympathetic look. You looked up into the treetops, happily enjoying the chirping of the birds and the early morning breeze.

"It really is a nice morning, isn't it?" John followed your gaze into the trees, smiling faintly.

"Yeah. It really is." Silence followed for a minute or so as the three of you stood—or sat, in your case—in the path, content to watch the sun trickle through the branches of the lush patch of forest. "So... you guys want to walk any further?"

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and began to roll slowly forwards along the path. The three of you walked in silence for a while, Sherlock analyzing the types of plants that grew alongside the path while you and John simply looked at the flowers, the birds, and the trees with a quiet sort of wonder. Nature was more stunning than anything you'd ever seen.

A jogger startled you from your thoughts as she ran past, headphones in, at a steady pace.

"Dangit, the runners are here. Now is about the time I usually leave. I like the solitude better—or in this case, just a little stroll with friends." You smiled. "So, who's up for the zoo?"

 

To your disappointment, today happened to be the day the zoo was closed for maintenance.

"Aww. I really wanted to see the elephants and go to the petting zoo." You frowned and crossed your arms, fully aware of the childish aura you were emitting.

"You can see them another day," Sherlock assured you.

"Was there anything else you wanted to see?" John asked, hoping to distract you from this small tragedy.

"Oh! Right," you clapped your hands, "Well, since the zoo didn't work out, I suppose we can go out for breakfast instead of lunch, which was what I was thinking originally. It's within walking distance from here—a café owned by a friend." The zoo nearly forgotten, your face was lit up with excitement—or perhaps anticipation for food, which by now was something everyone had on their minds.

"Great, I'm starving," John quipped, echoing the thoughts of the group.

"Well, Rachel'll sure take care of that," you smirked, "Come on! I'll bet I'm hungrier than you are!"

"Hmm, somehow I doubt that," John grinned.

You laughed. "Alright, well we'll see who finishes their pancakes then, shall we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like John in the mornings. -_-  
> And actually I've recently discovered that coffee makes me _really_ jittery, so I lean towards decaf unless I need the boost.
> 
> Man, it's been way too long since I've updated this. I'm so sorry! Basically I've been busy with projects, school crap, and a bunch of things outside of school. I'm hoping I'll be able to post more often than this from now on. :D


	13. Chapter 13

You know, I'm surprised at you, Sherlock. I'd have thought you'd be complaining this entire time. I thought you didn't want to go?" You poked your brother in the arm, and he rubbed the spot in an annoyed manner.

"Well, since you decided to stop talking for most of the time, I found it unnecessary to complain about anything."

"Oh my gosh, you're too much," you giggled, poking him again and then speeding a little ahead. "Man, my arms are gonna be really buff after this. I'm exhausted."

"Do you want any help?" John asked.

"Psh, no. The café is right around this corner. I'll survive."

The café was just as you'd remembered it. Rachel kept it up well—it was a pale blue little corner shop with umbrella-covered tables lining the outside. The inside consisted of a coffee-house style decor, with the menu written tactfully in colorful chalk on chalkboards behind the counter.

"Excuse me, is Rachel here?" you asked the server behind the counter.

"Sure, let me go get her for you." You waited for a moment before a tall, slender woman in an apron and cheesy chef's hat came waltzing out of the kitchen.

"(F/n)! Oh my stars, it's so good to see you again, love!" You grinned and returned her hug as she stooped down a little to accommodate for your chair.

"How've you been, Rachel?"

"Great! But you, my dear—what did you get yourself into this time?" She shook her head at your appearance.

"Welp, I went and fell off a building. I don't even remember why. Hopefully it'll come to me in a little while." You laughed a little and began making your way outside to find a table, Rachel close behind. "Oh, Rachel—Sherlock and his flatmate John are with me."

"Sherlock! It's so good to see you again! And you must be John—I'm Rachel. Nice to meet you!" You grinned sheepishly as Rachel proceeded to mother everything out of the two men. Sherlock shot you an annoyed glance, which just made you laugh quietly.

Eventually, the chatter subsided and Rachel pulled out a pad of paper to take orders. Immediately you decided on strawberry pancakes, a usual of yours, while John and Sherlock ordered whatever they'd wanted—you didn't know; you were too busy staring into oblivion.

"(F/n), stop." Sherlock's sharp words brought you out of your trance.

"Gah, sorry—I'm supposed to not be thinking about the case and imminent danger. Right." You shook your head to clear it and leaned over the table on your elbows. "So. How's everyone doing? Any interesting stuff? Oh wait—the case is all the interesting stuff going on. Um," you bit your lip and wracked your brains for something else to say.

"Well, I think tomorrow is Valentine's Day," John offered.

Your jaw dropped. "Oh my gosh, it is? I thought—no, never mind. Sorry, I get really confused about what time of year it is because I'm always holed up for months on end... Wow, I haven't had a Valentine's Day in about 3 years."

"Really? Well then we've got to celebrate with you!" John's face lit up at the prospect, which you found somewhat uplifting. Normally this was one of the most painful parts of your job, but it seemed someone wanted to make it a little better.

"Don't you have a date, though?" you asked inquisitively.

"Well," John nodded, "I do, but it's in the evening. We've got all day."

"You know," you smiled, "all the chocolate goes on sale the day afterwards. How about we go out and buy a whole bunch after tomorrow?"

"Sounds like a plan," John agreed.

The conversation was interrupted briefly as Rachel brought out everyone's orders. For a few minutes, everyone was distracted by the steaming piles of pancakes before them.

"So," you mumbled through a rather large mouthful, "I don't really have anything else planned after this. Anyone have anything they wanna do? Or do we want to just go home? Oh, right. We're out of milk and a whole bunch of other things. Grocery shopping. You guys can take a cab home. I can grab everything."

"You can't go on your own, (f/n)," Sherlock said.

"Really, I'll be fine. It's only milk and a few other things."

"You don't need to be out on your own. It's for your own safety."

You wrinkled your nose. "And also your peace of mind, I assume? I get you're worried, but you don't need to go all psycho-big-brother on me, Sherly."

"We don't know how you fell off that building. I-we don't want anything to happen to you. Simple precautions." Sherlock was very close to rolling his eyes, you noticed with a smirk.

"I hate to say it, but John hasn't known me long enough to care about what's going to happen to me. So we come to the truthful revelation that yes, indeed, you do care about what happens to me." He took one glance at your mildly triumphant expression and coughed.

"While I hate to ruin the moment of sibling affection here, I do in fact care about what happens to you, (f/n)," John pointed out.

"Fine. If both of you love me so much, come to the store with me." You attempted a pokerface, but it only lasted for a few seconds before you burst into giggles. "Gah, sorry, I'm tired."

"Why don't you go home with Sherlock, and I'll do the shopping. Do you remember what we need?" John asked.

"I've got a shopping list in my pocket," you said, "but you don't have to go just because I'm tired."

"Well, I've got nothing else to do. It's really not a problem," John shrugged. You dug into your pocket and pulled out the crumpled list scrawled in black pen. He took it from you, unfolded it, then refolded it and stuck it in his wallet.

"Thanks, John," you smiled, then turned to Sherlock. "I can tell you're bored. You wanna try a new experiment when we get home? I have some ideas. And I really don't want to apologize to your new landlady for bullets in the wall."

"Oh, I've already had to do that," John laughed. You frowned.

"Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson's nice. Why do you torment everyone so?" He said nothing. "You're impossible," you grinned.

"And you're annoying."

"Touché."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta love that epic sibling fluff there at the end.
> 
> Sherlock's said like nothing, so I think he's really bored. Better do some cool stuff so he's less-grieved. Cool stuff coming up, Sherly.


	14. Chapter 14

Despite promising your brother an experiment, upon arriving home you collapsed onto the couch and slept. You were exhausted and slept for a solid four hours.

Footsteps coming up the stairs awoke you from your slumber.

"John?" you mumbled, lifting yourself up with your left arm.

"No, (f/n)—it's only me. My apologies for awakening you." The blurry figure of your eldest brother cleared as you blinked rapidly.

"Mycroft! What are you doing here?"

"I dropped by to discuss the case. Lestrade said you had some information, and he figured you would be more comfortable discussing it with family." You mentally smacked yourself for not noticing his slightly sympathetic gaze sooner. Sherlock would have known what was so strange about Mycroft instantly. Now you realized, slightly too late, that he was merely pitying you. Your face hardened.

"I'll tell you what I know," you said shortly.

"Now (f/n), don't—"

"Brother, what are you doing here?" Sherlock's tone nearly matched your own as he strode into the room.

"Lestrade needs the information," Mycroft said quietly.

"What information?" John was just coming down the stairs from his room. It seemed his entrance to the flat with groceries had been much quieter than Mycroft's.

"He wants to question (f/n) about the note," Sherlock informed him.

"And I thought I was going to have a day off," you sighed coldly.

"We- we can get this over with quickly if you'd just tell me what the note was all about. I'm terribly sorry to have to do this, but better from me than from Lestrade." Mycroft gave a heavier, tired sigh. You could see he felt bad about this, but it was still hard for you.

"I'll just give you the basic facts," you said. "The note was from a hostage taker. The big boss of the operation. He was—he was the only person in years who I hadn't managed to stop. H-he killed innocent civilians. It was my fault. And he insisted on ordering candy apples instead of regular ones while we were inside the building because he was bloody crazy. I was there for a month. I-he killed so many people. He's going to do it again."

Mycroft nodded. "So you suspect he's planning something else? Will it involve you?"

You shut your eyes and pursed your lips. "I don't know. I'd do anything so that I didn't have to see him again."

"But why would he address this note obviously to you if you weren't going to be pulled into this again?" Sherlock asked.

It wasn't apparent how draining this short conversation had been on you until you were hugging a pillow to your chest and choking on silent sobs. "I-I don't kn-know. D-don't let him k-kill people because of me, p-please? Mycroft, you've got to s-stop him. Please."

"I promise I'll do everything in my power to prevent anything from happening," your brother said gently. You could hear his footsteps heading towards the stairs and made no move to bid him farewell. He and Sherlock exchanged a whispered argument before he descended the stairs of the flat.

As soon as he had gone, both John and Sherlock were next to you in an instant.

"I-I don't want to see him again. H-he was cr-crazy, and he was the only o-one who could mess with my mind. I've never failed a mission like that one before. I-it was like he could r-read me, and he just k-killed so many people, and it was my fault," you sobbed as you buried your muffled cries into a pillow.

"You keep saying that," John said softly, "and it's not true. You just said this man was crazy. And judging by the fact that he insisted upon candy apples rather than regular, I'd say he wasn't quite there, to be honest. People out there will mess with your mind. He's made you believe that it's your fault—but who did the killing? He did."

"And I could have stopped him," you cried miserably. "If I'd just—"

"(F/n), these kinds of people cannot be swayed sometimes. Surely you've been trained to understand that," Sherlock said. You nodded.

"I-I know... it's just so hard to live with. Feeling like I could have done something." You'd stopped crying now, and you lifted your head briefly to dry your face with the sleeve of your hoodie.

"I live with it everyday," John said quietly. "There were so many times I could have saved lives if I'd just moved faster, stopped the blood a little sooner." He stopped for a moment and took a steadying breath. "It takes time. But you'll learn to wake up, look in the mirror, and see yourself as a good person again. I can promise you that."

You reached over shakily and pulled John into a hug. You pulled away after a few moments, dried your eyes, and said nothing. It was quiet for a long time as both John and Sherlock sat with you, allowing you time to sort through your rapidly changing and confusing thoughts.

 

"Have you got it?" Greg Lestrade looked up briefly at Mycroft as the man walked though the doorway to his office.

"As much as I could gather," Mycroft sighed, placing a printed page onto the inspector's desk. Lestrade picked it up and scanned it for a moment.

"This is it?" He wore an expression of disappointment and annoyance. "You didn't get the man's name? A description? Simply that she'd dealt with him before and he liked candy apples?"

A pained look crossed Mycroft's face. "Greg, you don't—she was crying. She couldn't continue. I would have asked her more, but I'm her brother. I can't cause her more pain by forcing her to recount everything when it's quite apparent she's still not ready."

Lestrade frowned. "How long ago was this escapade?"

"It wasn't an escapade," Mycroft snapped, "It was a hostage situation in Addis Ababa. It went on for a month. It doesn't matter how long ago it happened because what matters is that she's still suffering from a fair amount of guilt. This was the only time she'd failed to stop someone from killing the majority of the civilians. She feels responsible, and she hasn't given herself time to forgive herself for it. How can you ask an older brother to force his little sister to relive the most terrifying event in her life?"

"I... will you you be able to get the rest of the information later?"

"I am sure she will be ready to give more details in the future. Just... not at the present time."

"I understand." Lestrade fell silent, allowing Mycroft to take his leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight info dump and interesting revelations.  
> Whoever this hostage dealer is, he's crazy. XD It's only gonna get better from here.


	15. Chapter 15

An hour and two cups of tea later, the boiling thunder of your thoughts had been brought down to a low simmer. Things looked clearer now. You breathed a small sigh and shifted on the couch. John looked up at you as you yawned and stretched your legs.

"Thanks for the tea," you said sheepishly, glancing down at the two empty mugs laying on the floor.

"No problem," John smiled. "Feeling any better?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. Just needed to sort out my thoughts for a bit. Sherlock's got his whole 'mind palace' thing going for him, while us regular humans have to deal with these things without nifty rooms and folders. Seriously, I wish I had a room dedicated to all this hostage stuff. Not that I'd ever go in there. But you know..." You trailed off a little, and it was evident to John that you were in a much better mood.

You found that after a couple hours of thinking, you were famished. However, you didn't really want to leave the couch. It was kind of nice sitting next to John, exchanging idle chatter. It was something Sherlock and Mycroft never did, and when you did make small talk it was usually with a hostage dealer, who was quite possibly mentally unstable.

"So, how'd your date go last night?" you asked.

"Hmm? Oh, it went fine. She was a bit too... reserved. Nice enough, I suppose, but not very exciting." John looked bored.

"No, no, that's not what I meant," you said, "I mean, what did you do? What—what was it like? What do people do on dates?"

John stopped and looked at you incredulously for a moment. "When was the last time you've been on a date?"

The sun was nearly set over the hill and you squinted into the light the sun cast over your face from between the half-drawn curtains. "I don't remember. Years and years ago. What is it like?"

John paused and seemed to consider his answer for a moment before speaking. "Well, sometimes you go see a movie, or maybe go out to dinner, or both. Normally a first date is just talking with someone, getting to know them a little. If you like them well enough, you can go on a second one, and then so on and so on."

"(F/n), I'm curious to hear your thoughts on the note. What do you think he's planning to do?" Sherlock appeared in the doorway from the kitchen. You tensed a little as you turned from John to face your brother.

"Sherlock," John warned, but you moved to put your hand on his arm.

"Nothing yet. It's possible he's going to try and drag me into something else. Or maybe he's warning me that he's going to try something. Or he just wants me to know he's still out there. I don't know. He's bloody mad, that's what he is, so who knows?" You shrugged and finally decided to get up and find something to eat. John had brought back groceries, so maybe there'd be some bread or something.

 

John was surprised to say the least that after your small bout of hysterics that you were now recovered and speaking freely of the incident that had triggered it. He had to hand it to the Holmes family—they could organize their thoughts better than most people he knew, even if you yourself didn't have what Sherlock called his Mind Palace.

"Do you happen to know anyone by the name of Ian?" Sherlock blurted, and the sound of shattering glass echoed from the next room.

"Gahh, sorry! Just knocked something over—it's fine. Yeah, I know an Ian. Why?" Your voice was stable, suggesting that the name didn't hold much significance, but Sherlock's sobered face told John that perhaps he'd deduced something.

"Where is he now?"

You came abruptly to meet him in the doorframe of the kitchen. "If Heaven's real, I know Ian is there." Your voice, even and calm, didn't reflect the conflicting emotions in your face. John couldn't tell what you were thinking, but for the most part you just looked sad.

Sherlock opened his mouth but John cut him off, "Sherlock, does this have anything to do with the case?"

A terse nod from both of you. Sherlock cleared his throat. "They found another clue. Lestrade says it was sent by post to his office directly."

"What did it say about Ian?"

"The note read, 'Smile. You'll be seeing Ian soon.'"

The color drained from both your and John's faces. "Bloody hell—he wants to kill you," John whispered.

"It would appear that way, yes." You turned back to the kitchen and began sweeping the broken glass as though nothing had happened. Neither John nor Sherlock knew what to do—here you were, acting normal, in the middle of a panic-inducing revelation.

"I think it's acute stress disorder," Sherlock said quietly as you carried on as though nothing had happened. John shook his head.

"I think she's just upset." Acute stress disorder would usually entail avoiding the subject matter that made one upset. You just seemed to be brushing it off, acting as though you didn't care. Sherlock looked like he was about retaliate, but you came out of the kitchen holding a mug of tea, cutting him off.

"I know you're all wondering—Ian was a hostage in one of my situations. He didn't make it out." Your voice broke at the last word, but you still tried to keep a neutral face as you sat down on the couch again, setting your tea on the table beside you. The hunched way you held yourself and the utterly pitiful expression you were wearing made it all the more frightening for the two men in the flat who had absolutely no idea how to handle an upset, grieving woman.

After a long pause, the only thing John could say was a muffled, "Oh, (f/n)," as he pulled you into another hug. You broke again and buried yourself in the warm, slightly scratchy material of his jumper. Now you'd lost count of the times you'd cried today—this morning, twice this afternoon. You didn't have any tears or sadness left, really, and you simply let him hug you as your face contorted with the burden of misery.

The sun was now behind the hills, and my butts were a stunningly vibrant contrast of pink and orange when you rose from the couch, exhausted, to pull on pajamas and fall back onto the couch for some much-needed sleep. You paused for a moment to simply gaze at the sky. It was beautiful. The weight on your chest, already lightened after comforting words from and John and a mug of tea, seemed to disappear for a few moments. The world wasn't always cruel, said the sunset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AT LONG LAST.  
> IT IS HERE.  
> This thing took me forever to write because I kept hitting a point where I wasn't sure how to continue. This is basically a month of effort. Hope you enjoy. I've already started the next chapter and the snowball is rolling again, so you shouldn't expect another month's wait. Exams are coming up in like 3 weeks though, so my Hermione-mode might get a little in the way, but my weird writers-block thingy is gone, so never fear!  
> enjoy ~


	16. Chapter 16

"Oh my gosh, it's Valentines Day." You nearly dropped your bowl of oatmeal at the breakfast table as John looked blearily at nothing, and Sherlock sighed.

"So?" Your brother raised an eyebrow. You raised one defiantly back.

"So tomorrow there's going to be discount chocolate!" Your brother said nothing, but his expression changed to one of mild interest instead of questioning. Even John's eyes became less glazed, you noticed. Everyone liked chocolate, right?

You scraped the last raisin out of the bottom of your bowl and reached over to set it in the sink. "So Sherly, what are we doing today?"

"What do you mean?"

"We're working on the case, remember? So, what do we have to do?"

Sherlock squinted for a moment, as though recalling something. "Well, we're looking into the note. We need to find who sent it, but I think that's in Lestrade's division."

"Since when has that ever stopped you from meddling?" You frowned. Your brother didn't like being so involved in this case. It seemed quite obvious he didn't want to hurt you. "Sherlock, stop worrying about me. You don't worry about anyone else, so don't let me stop you. I'm perfectly alright now."

Both men eyed you with a look that most usually reserved for undetonated material excavated in Vietnam.

"Hey, I'm not an emotional crumpled rag anymore guys. I know my own strength, and I'll be fine," you cleared your throat, "I suppose I'm going to have to describe him to someone who'll draw him so we can get a good idea of what the suspect looks like. We don't have any pictures of him. The hostage-taking guy, I mean."

Sherlock let out a long breath. "Yes, I suppose that's what you'll need to do."

"Are you sure you want to do this, (f/n)? We can wait if you're not ready—"

"I'm fine John," you assured the doctor, smirking. "Really. Yesterday was pretty hard on me since I don't cope well with stifling emotions. I should have just immersed myself in the case and cried when I needed to instead of bottling it up."

It was a little startling to both men that you'd just revealed a hidden facet of your personality so openly; but Sherlock had already known it anyways, and John found he was simply curious to hear more. You brushed your hair out of your eyes with your left hand, the one not bound to a cast, and rolled over next to Sherlock to see who he was texting on his phone.

_Coming in 5 -SH_

"Well, guess we better head out then," you announced, confusing only John. "We're heading out to work on the case," you told him as you wheeled out of the kitchen.

 

You had no trouble describing the man you'd spent days upon days with. "His eyes were crazy—this weird light in them. Yeah. Oh, his chin is a little pointier than that."

It took a lot of patience and a few broken pencils to finally help the artist create a sketch of the man. You nodded in consent after a long couple of hours.

"Yep. That's him. You did a good job," you said to the young man who had drawn the portrait. He gave a polite thanks. "So, what next?"

When you looked up, you found the room to be deserted. Sherlock and John were nowhere to be found. The only sounds in the large police station room were the artist packing up his gear and the footsteps of an officer who was collecting the portrait. You made your way over to the door from where you came. Outside, Sherlock was interrogating a desk clerk. 

"Sherlock, we're done here!" you called, giving the flustered intern a sympathetic look. She smiled at you.

"Tell your brother to take a look in the city hall records, will you?" she said. You laughed and nodded.

"Will do."

Sherlock came up behind you and pushed you along the hallway up ahead. You didn't protest—your arms were now excruciatingly sore from the days of wheeling yourself around. 

"What was that all about? Why didn't she just tell you to your face? I'm not an owl..." you grumbled.

"The city hall records won't have anything on domestic violence open to the public," Sherlock muttered.

"Hon, if anyone's got clearance, it's Mycroft." He gave you a strange look at this new term of endearment.

"I can't ask him," he protested. You sighed.

"I might have clearance. We can go find out if you want. Where's John?" The absence of the sandy-haired man was now apparent as Sherlock hailed a cab. You had recently realized that it was possible to fold a wheelchair and put it in the boot of a car. 

"He had some business to take care of. City hall, please," he told the cab driver. You lifted yourself out of your chair and let Sherlock put it in the back. He got in beside you, and you leaned your head on his shoulder.

"I'm tired," you mumbled.

"From all that sitting around you've done all day?"

"My butt hurts from sitting, and it's hard work describing someone."

Neither of you had anything more to add to the conversation, so the rest of the ride was in silence. You got out at the massive building that housed London's city hall records.

"Excuse me, but who would have clearance to access the domestic violence records?" you asked an older Asian gentleman at the correct desk once you were inside.

"If you would like access, please present an ID," he said in a monotone voice.

"I'm a hostage negotiator and I deal with domestic violence cases. My brother, Mycroft Holmes, needs me to check on some papers." The man's eyes widened at the dropping of your brother's name, and he nodded.

"Yes madam, please come with me."

"Um, I've got my other brother here, if you don't mind." The man nodded impatiently and set off. You were in.

 

"Oh my gosh, Sherlock, what does this even have to do with the case?" you moaned, throwing your head back in exasperation. It had been 3 hours, and Sherlock didn't seem to be finding anything.

"This is a separate case. We shouldn't be here for much longer." He grunted and turned back to his papers. Sometimes your brother sucked.

"Where's Jo-ohn?" you whined. Sherlock sighed.

"He's probably at home, getting ready for a date or something."

"Oh, he's got a date tonight?" You looked up from the notebook in your lap. Who would he be taking out on Valentines' Day?

"Yes—nothing formal, but he's planning to go to dinner. Probably another lonely person who hasn't got a date."

You smiled. "I wonder if anyone else wants a date? I'd love to do something casual. It's been so long since I celebrated Valentines' Day."

At that moment, Sherlock's phone beeped. He picked it up, his eyes flickering across the screen. Quickly, he placed papers back in their files and reshelved them. You looked at him questioningly, but he didn't say anything.

"Where are we going?" you asked.

"Lunch."

You raised an eyebrow. "Did John just let you know that it was time to eat?"

"Don't be silly," your brother scoffed, but you grinned. The memories of his forgetfulness of meal times came flooding back. John was a good friend to him. Your watch read 3:32—pretty late for lunch, but you couldn't say you'd noticed. You and Sherlock were similar in your ability to ignore hunger pangs.

"So, where are we going? I'm really hungry now that you mention it."

He looked at you for a moment. "Chinese?"

"Chinese."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, yes. The long-awaited chapter that is basically nothing but filler. Such fun.
> 
> I'm beginning to regret sticking the reader in a wheelchair... it's getting a little inconvenient. Oh well, I'm just going to have to deal with it.


	17. Chapter 17

"Wait, were we going to pick up takeout for John?" you remembered a little too late in the cab on the way home.

Sherlock only sighed and told the cabbie to pull over into the right lane to turn around.

"Oh, don't bother. I can just make something when we get home. He's at work, right?" you asked, tired from a long day and not remembering who was where earlier in the morning. It was nearing dinnertime after a long afternoon of scouring libraries and the internet, which you argued could be accessed from home.

"No," Sherlock said with a slightly weary tone, "He's off today."

"Oh," you sighed. "Okay."

The cab ride was completely silent for the next ten minutes as you rested your head on your brother's shoulder, and he gently wrapped an arm around you. A light drizzle pattered the roof and windows, lulling you slowly to sleep.

 

You awoke groggy and sluggish, instantly regretting the small amount of sleep you'd gotten. Somehow you'd gotten into your wheelchair—or had Sherlock set you in it? You didn't know. It was all bleary and full of the bitter taste of regret.

"Sherly, why'd you let me fall asleep?" you groaned. "I feel awful."

"You were tired. You needed sleep." Through the haze of rain droplets, you made out the slowly approaching door to the flat.

"Yeah, but I should have waited until we got home." You resisted the urge to let your head drop with enough force to give you a bad case of whiplash—well, if you did get whiplash, maybe it wouldn't matter. There was a doctor in the house, after all. For some reason this thought gave you a weird feeling that you shoved away deep into the pits of your mind, ready to be devoured by all the psychopaths that lurked there, safely away from your thoughts. What you lacked in Mind Palaces, you made up for in little nooks and crannies that never saw the light of day.

The next thing you knew, you were being clunked up the stairs. The uncomfortable jerking woke you enough to register John reading the paper in his armchair— wearing a suit, of all things. Oh, right. He had a date.

"Sorry, we didn't pick up dinn—oh, wait. Never mind, you're having dinner later," you quickly corrected yourself. 

"And so are you," John laughed. "Happy Valentines Day!"

"What?" You froze for a moment, and you could tell Sherlock was giving his flatmate a questioning look.

"Ah, I mean—well, since you haven't had a, uh, proper Valentines Day date in a long time, I-I was going to—"

"Really?" You interrupted John's flustered dialogue with an excited cry. "You mean you're—I get to—Tonight?"

"Well, I was hoping you'd get to celebrate Valentines Day _on_ Valentines Day," he chuckled, and you laughed.

"Right. Well then, shall—shall I go get ready?"

"John, you're not asking my sister out on a date?" Sherlock asked. You swiveled around and gave him an incredulous look.

"No, Sherlock, he's offering a kind gesture by taking my out to celebrate a holiday I haven't experienced in I don't know how many years," you cried. He frowned.

"I don't see why this holiday is so important. It's for couples, something of which you aren't a part of." You swallowed and nodded.

"Thanks for reminding me of yet another reason my job is the crappiest out there," you said quietly. You gave a small grin to an even more-flustered John and grabbed your suitcase on the way into the hall bathroom.

 

"I'd forgotten how much others value human affection," Sherlock muttered sheepishly.

John recovered quickly once you had left the room, "Sherlock, what made you think it was okay to berate her for being excited about a holiday?"

"All I asked was if it was a date," Sherlock said irritably.

"No—no, it's not. I was just trying to treat (f/n) to a celebration she hasn't had in quite a while. I thought it would be nice. Now she's upset." John heaved a heavy sigh and ran a hand through his hair. At least Sherlock had defined the terms of this dinner. He hadn't actually been sure himself.

"Ready to go?" Your wheelchair frame was silhouetted in the doorway to the kitchen. You rolled out into the light of the living room in your formal attire. You wore a red form-fitting dress with a black clutch. Somehow you'd managed to apply a tasteful layer of makeup and put your hair up into a classic bun, a couple of strands of hair falling loosely around your face. How you'd done it all so quickly and professionally was beyond John.

He realized a moment too late that he'd been looking at you without saying anything.

"Do you like it? These are the only nice clothes I own, practically, so they're not the _best_ , but I mean..." you trailed off, not quite sure how to expound on your years-old dress that you weren't even sure was in style anymore.

"Uh—yeah. It's—it looks absolutely amazing, (f/n)." Heat rose in John's cheeks—had that come across as awkward as it had sounded coming out of his mouth? He might as well just shove his foot in there while he was at it.

To his relief, you flashed a genuine smile—nothing goofy or mischievous like was the norm. "Thank you, John."

"Shall we?" John asked, glad the slightly-uncomfortable situation was resolving itself.

"We shall," you laughed as he grabbed the handles on the back of your chair. "See you in a little while, Sherlock!"

You shot him an encouraging glance as you made your way down the stairs, hoping he wasn't still miffed at the idea of you having dinner with John.

 

He ended up taking you to a rather nice Italian restaurant near the park you'd visited yesterday morning. You looked through the menu idly.

"What are you getting?" John asked. You squinted at the small print in the squiggly, annoying font. How did anyone read this? Were they all just pretending? Was your eyesight poor? Was it even text, or strange designs? A code perhaps?

"Hm? Oh, I think I'll just get a soup. I already kind of had dinner. It's sad, too, because I'd do what the Romans did and just vomit it all back up again if I could have even a bite of the lasagna. I don't remember the last time I had lasagna." You smiled nervously, then looked across the table at a slightly uncomfortable John. "Bugger, that was gross. Sorry. Bad dinner conversation."

To your surprise, John laughed. "Don't apologize—I just wasn't expecting that. Not normally a topic people drift to on a da—dinner."

"Oh. Well, hopefully I'm excused from sticking to whatever dull topics of conversation people normally use in dinner situations, like the weather or how many children we want to have or something like that." There was a silence for a moment before both of you burst out laughing, earning irritated glances from other customers.

Any previous drowsiness was long forgotten as the two of you conversed long after the food was finished.

"So it just went off in the _middle_ of the party? Why in the world didn't he change it?" you giggled, perhaps a little tipsy from the wine you knew you'd drunk a little more than you should have.

"Beats me," John said, "I would have thought he fancied her, but obviously that can't be the case..."

"Oh, I think we'd both be surprised," you murmured, looking somewhere off in the distance behind John. For a second you made eye contact with him across the table, the dim light from the slightly rusted chandelier catching the chocolate flecks in his brown eyes. 

An unnatural bolt of lightening shot from your throat to your stomach, static electricity leaving your stomach with a buzzing sensation. You cleared your throat and took another sip of wine, which eased some of the lightning's effects. You wished you could chalk it up to indigestion or another illness, but an even more uncomfortable sensation of dread washed over you when you realized you couldn't dismiss it. Was something wrong? It felt like a gut feeling, like maybe it wasn't safe—the kind of gut instinct you got whenever you knew you were in danger.

"It's late," John said, looking at his watch. "We should probably get you home so you can sleep."

"Just me?" you laughed, "You were a zombie again this morning, as usual. Why don't we _both_ go home to get some sleep?"

"Er, right." He motioned for a waiter to bring the bill and pulled out his wallet.

 

The wine and your full stomach, along with an early morning of case-solving, created a powerful sedative that put you to sleep practically the instant you got into the cab. The clock read 1:30 am, but you were too out of it to even notice. You muttered something that sounded like, "Goodnight," but John couldn't be sure.

As awkward as it might have been if both of you were awake and sober, neither of you really minded when you had to groggily open your eyes as John lifted you out of the cab and carried you up to the flat, the air crisp with the scent of rain and wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which John takes you on a da-er, dinner. Sherlock insists that this is a dinner.  
> Neither John nor you are really sure what it is.
> 
> Yep, I wrote a few chapters while in the states. I'll post them later so I have more time to get ahead. ^^


	18. Chapter 18

You took a deep breath. "I have to do this?" Sherlock gave you a look. You both knew this wasn't optional, and you weren't kidding anyone by acting like it was. He put a hand on your shoulder.

"You'll be fine. Sharing information isn't going to hurt you, I promise." You nodded, taking his advice to heart before steeling yourself for your meeting with Inspector Greg Lestrade. You felt ready enough to go over your case in detail, but there was still a part of you that felt ready to burst into tears. Nervously, you hoped he would be as friendly as possible and that you wouldn't start crying again.

"Alright. You'll be waiting out here?"

Sherlock gave a pained grimace. "Actually, our brother has asked that I meet him at his warehouse, so I will be stepping outside shortly. You may have to take a cab home."

"Oh," you sighed. "Okay. Well, I'll see you later then."

Your brother nodded, and you swiveled around towards the door that read Ins. Lestrade, holding your breath.

 

Mycroft paced the length of his desk at the warehouse, his feet clicking on the hard cement floor each time he stepped in his agitated rhythm. He had only just made his discovery but a half an hour ago, calling Sherlock the instant he'd made it and rushing to get to his warehouse before his brother did—Sherlock would be here at any moment. He abruptly ceased his pacing and sat down at the armchair behind the desk. He needed to look professional when his brother entered with an escort. His employees couldn't see him like this—terrified and at a loss for words.

A lone file lay crooked on the tabletop in front of him. It was marked with a blazing red label with two initials on it. Sherlock would recognize it instantly, he knew. Just as the thought entered his mind, two pairs of footsteps echoed up the stairway.

"Brother." Sherlock stood in front of him, looking slightly unamused. Mycroft sighed and waited until the escort was completely out of earshot.

"Sherlock. Please, can we put aside our dislike for each other for just a moment? We've found a match for the drawing she described to the artist."

At this, the younger brother's jaw went slack—but only for a moment, before he sharply pulled it up again, hurrying past his brother to the desk. And then fell promptly to his knees.

"Not—" he struggled.

Yes, his brother had indeed recognized the file, Mycroft thought.

"The one and the same, Sherlock."

"But he—he'd shot himself, I didn't think of the possibility—the damn shock dulled my senses. I should have forseen this. I should have forseen this." Mycroft watched his brother pace on the same ground that he had been wearing away moments before.

"Moriarty appears to have held the African bank hostage merely weeks after committing suicide on the roof. The records to the case involving anything about him are gone—probably taken before anyone had the chance to recognize him. We had pictures previously, but I hadn't bothered to take a look at them. If anything, _I_ should have forseen this." Mycroft brought a hand up to his temple to soothe the oncoming migraine he felt pulsing in his veins.

"We both should have forseen this, brother. And now our little sister is in mortal danger because of it."

"Sherlock, you're going to need to act like everything is normal. Keeping her inside won't help because we both know Moriarty is smarter than that. Just don't let her know you've met him before. Don't let her know he's very nearly as intelligent as—"

"Don't say it!" hissed Sherlock. "Don't say another word! I will not let any harm come to her as long as I live."

 

"Greg, I just don't see why they need to question me about something that happened nearly two years ago," you sighed.

"(F/n), you see—a lot of information seems to be missing from that particular case file. We've recovered what we could, but we need to fill in the things we don't have." Inspector Lestrade sighed and leaned back in his chair.

"Well, is—is that about it?" you prayed he hadn't heard your voice catch.

"Yes, yes I believe that was about all we needed. Oh, wait—just one last question. Have you seen or heard anything from the hostage taker since the situation?"

Your eyes narrowed. Something in the question triggered a memory—no, you hadn't seen the man since Africa... or had you? Surely you would remember something as significant as meeting the man who had made your waking hours a living hell and your sleeping ones something worse. But an itch that could not be reached with anything tormented you at the back of your brain, somewhere down in the crevices that housed the crazies and the demons. You felt as though maybe you had seen him.

"... not that I can remember," you said slowly. Greg looked at you for a moment but then nodded.

"Alright. You may go. Thanks... and sorry, (f/n). This has been hard."

You smiled weakly at him. "Goodbye, Greg." The door shut behind you with a satisfying click.

You glanced nervously around the empty space outside of Lestrade's office. Sherlock wasn't anywhere in sight—was he still talking to Mycroft after two hours? No one was in the surrounding offices to see you, so you let your face crumple and a tear or two leak out before you composed yourself again and navigated through the hallways to the entrance. You would have to hail a cab alone.

"(F/n)?" A familiar voice met you at the door as the brisk chill of overcast London hit your face. It was John, you thought with a sigh of relief.

"Thank goodness you're here—Sherlock had to go with Mycroft for something," you breathed quickly, pulling John down by his arms into a tight hug. For a moment he was stiff and bent at an odd angle, and you nearly pulled away before he returned the hug gently.

"Are you alright? You look a bit shaken," he asked, pulling back to hold your shoulders and look at your face. You felt your face color slightly, but you ignored it and swallowed.

"Th—the interview was really hard. A lot of memories brought to the surface. But I'm alright." You found it difficult to look the doctor in the eyes, and when you tried it sent a thrill of electricity through you. You weren't kidding yourself with excuses of illness—but excuses of stress and the investigation being taxing were perfectly valid, you thought, some happiness flooding you at the thought. It was only the case.

"I'm sorry," John said, letting go of you. "I know this is hard for you. You'll get through it—I promise."

You pondered this as John stepped out into the road to hail a cab. You'd get through this. Just get through it. Let it happen, let everything flow past you and ebb away into a nothingness that will be forgotten and unneeded, unwanted. Events would play out, so you only needed to step back and let them  happen so you could move on with your life—but you had a feeling that your interpretation wasn't quite what John had meant. He had given it as more of a call to action, something to be brave for.

You stuck your chin up just a hair as you maneuvered your way into the back of the cab, letting John put your wheelchair in the boot. And dammit, you'd give anything to be rid of the thing. Just five more weeks.

 

"I've got snipers on standby around the flat—they'll keep a close watch on you. I know you don't like it when I do these things to meddle in your affairs, but Sherlock—this is for (f/n)'s sake. You can't protect her on your own." Mycroft looked imploringly at his brother, who looked ready to burst at the prospect of his brother trying to protect you.

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to retort, but to Mycroft's surprise he closed it again. "Alright. Shall I give any word of this to John?"

"Only that the situation is more grave than we anticipated. There is no need to further agitate him. As we both know, it's hard to simply stand by when we know a loved one is in danger." Mycroft's features hinted at a smirk. Sherlock frowned.

"Brother, this is no time to make jokes."

"I wasn't joking," Mycroft said in a now more serious tone. "I merely meant that John would become more fearful than he already is, which is not something (f/n) needs to worry about. He would not conceal it as well as I know you can."

"Is that all?"

"Yes. Go and make sure she's alright—the interview will have shaken her up."

Sherlock nodded and turned to walk down the dim room towards the exit, saying nothing but knowing that both of them sensed the tense and fearful atmosphere in the room, thick and cloying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow.  
> I don't even know how long it's been. This chapter has been sitting here, finished, for who-knows-how-long.  
> I intend to finish this story, guys! I promise I'll do it, even if it takes me forever. :)
> 
> A few side notes:  
> -The timeline for this story is after Sherlock has come back from pretending to be dead. 'Tis why Moriarty is out of the picture... until now. Muahaha. Apologies if that plot twist wasn't what you were expecting. I'd had it in mind the whole time, so sorry if you were expecting something else!  
> -Yeah, you call Lestrade 'Greg.' It's only because you've worked closely with him before and you as the reader are pretty friendly. So yes.  
> -What is romance. What is plot development. Who knows?
> 
> Chapter 18 is finished as well (Wow, I did work a while ago! Who knew?) so I'll be posting that. ^^


	19. Chapter 19

Laughing, you wheeled out of the kitchen with two cups of steaming black tea. "So, are all dates with you as exciting as that one?"

John had just told, in great detail, the story of taking a date to a Chinese circus only to have Sherlock crash it and end up getting the terrified girl in a hostage situation.

"I wish," John chuckled. "Nowadays I'm forgetting that there ever was such a thing as an exciting date."

"So you're not bringing in all those ladies?" You shot him your own pitiful version of a seductive glance, and the two of you burst into childish giggles.

"Sadly, no." While he tried to say it with a cheerful tone, he could tell a trace of remorse had slipped in with it. Your face showed no signs that you had caught it, but he wasn't about to underestimate a Holmes.

You sighed quietly. "Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Obviously my job keeps me from dating for reasons of being away for too long and in large amounts of danger. I can't say I wouldn't mind a romantic relationship, but I'm just not sure there's anyone out there that would be willing to put up with my work. I love my job, I really do—something about helping people out of such terrifying situations, and the satisfaction of winning psychological battles—but as you've seen, there are times when it can be overwhelming." You smiled. "But no matter. The rewards are far greater than the losses. I suppose I don't mind it as much anymore."

"That's good," John said encouragingly, though truthfully he felt disheartened by the fact that you weren't happy with your long-time single status. For reasons he couldn't pinpoint, your muffled unhappiness made him discontented.

You smiled almost wistfully. "Yeah."

There was a pause as you stirred your tea and took a sip. You cleared your throat. "So, it seems Mycroft wanted to pull Sherlock into his warehouse for something. How happy do you suppose he's going to be when he arrives home?"

John laughed. "Not very."

"What would Mycroft have to say to Sherlock that he couldn't to me, though? It must have something to do with me." You frowned and set down your teacup.

"Well, you don't need to jump to conclusions," John said carefully, not wanting you to feel upset. "It's possible it's something he doesn't want me to hear, and he just couldn't pull you aside because of the interview."

Your expression softened, but you still looked concerned. "But he could have found another time... Well, it's Mycroft. Who knows?"

"You can never know with a Holmes, can you?" John jested.

"Hey!" You sent him a mischievous grin, which he returned. "You know I don't really like doctors all that much, either."

John's expression turned to mock-offended, though he was trying not to grin. "Well lucky for you, I'm not your doctor. I'm your frie—"

He stopped himself just as Sherlock's tall form appeared in the doorway. "You were saying?"

You'd been sitting with your back to the door, and your head whipped around rather quickly. "Nothing, Sherlock. We were just talking."

Sherlock nodded and went to set down some grocery bags in the kitchen—wait, Sherlock had bought groceries?—and John breathed a sigh of relief, though he could have sworn you looked slightly disappointed. He cleared his throat.

"So, ah, what did Mycroft want?" John glanced cautiously in your direction, and you shot him a grateful look.

Sherlock waited a moment to put something in the fridge before calling, "Just some more details about the case. Nothing important at all. It doesn't concern you."

"Well, why did he need to pull you into his warehouse?" you asked, your face showing signs of concern.

"I don't know. He's Mycroft!" Sherlock huffed, slamming the refrigerator door closed. It seemed this answer suited you, as you shifted back to face John with a relaxed countenance.

"So," you started, "what were we talking about?"

John hesitated for a moment, not sure if he wanted to repeat what he'd been about to say before Sherlock had interrupted. He wished he could have taken his last half-sentence back. He'd been about to call you a friend—why wasn't that alright? From quite a bit of past experience, he could tell that to him, you were more than a friend. He—he could admit that. But whether or not you wanted—or he wanted, for that matter—to go any ways beyond that was an infuriating mystery to him.

"Oh, er, I was just saying how, uh—that I'm not your doctor." 

Your expression brightened. "Right! And it's a good thing, too—you'd have a job bloody well cut out for you just trying to stop me from leaping off buildings and slamming body parts into things. I'd run you ragged."

John gave a hearty laugh. "I'm sure you would." Not that he'd mind.

 

"I forgot the milk," Sherlock groaned, coming into the living room and flopping heavily onto his armchair. You gave a small giggle at his rather haphazard composure.

"I'll get it," you sighed, putting your arms down by the wheels on your chair, ready to move. Both men made to stop you. 

"No, it's fine—I'll get it," John said quickly, getting up to go put on his shoes. You groaned.

"Great. Now I'm stuck in a house with two men who want to do everything for me like the independence–squashers they are." You said this with a smile, discouraging any doubt that you were actually upset about not being able to go to the store on your own. It really was too much work to catch a cab on your own in a wheelchair, and right now you felt pretty lazy.

"I'll be back in a bit," John promised, slipping his shoes on and heading down the stairs.

"Bye!" you called after him, a small grin still echoed on your angular features even after John had closed the door to the flat behind him.

Sherlock cleared his throat rather loudly and you looked up. He only did that when he was really sick or something was bothering him. As of now, it was obviously the latter.

"Anything wrong?" you asked, holding your breath. If he was going to chew you out again over something as stupid as a moved experiment, you were going to lecture right back.

"How... attached are you to John Watson?" He said this in such a serious, mildly concerned manner that you burst into laughter. You could feel his scowl piercing the top of your skull.

"Attached? Sherlock, what are you reading into here?"

He cleared his throat again, slightly quieter. "(F/n), neither of us are daft. It's clear to me and hopefully to you that your sudden friendship with John is bordering on romantic."

Your brother was, in fact, so daft that it made you cringe. Something about the way he'd worded that put you instantly into a foul mood.

"Sherlock," you began slowly, masking the small bit of anger that flashed in your eyes, "what _ever_ gave you the idea that I fancied John?"

"It seemed obviou—"

"I don't fancy ANYONE," you cried, "I CAN'T fancy anyone! I work months at a time, I can't even manage my own thoughts, and I most certainly cannot manage a friendship, let alone a relationship! It would never work, and we all know it! You even said so yourself the night John took my out to dinner! I'm not involved in any relationship—and I likely never will be."

"Well then tell John that so his boundaries are clear."

Your face couldn't even find the right expression for the surprise you took at this remark. "Sherlock Holmes, you can't possibly be suggesting that your flatmate fancies _me_. He'd have to be daft."

"Well, he's John."

You almost laughed. Almost. "Brother," you started in a patronizing tone only Mycroft could emulate, "I am fully aware that neither John nor I should really even try to fancy each other at this point. I—I don't fancy him. I'm not sure what gave you that notion."

"Er, do we need anything else? Besides milk?" John. You felt your face go white. Had he heard the whole thing?

"U-uh, just some bread I think? We're r-running out." Your voice squeaked, and you prayed you sounded not at all terrified.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at you, and you hissed at him, "What?"

"Disappointed, are we?"

"Sherlock, you will be silent this instant or I will phone Mycroft and tell him about all your black market purchases."

That did it.

"Sorry. You were saying something, John?" He was trying to hide amusement and failing miserably.

"Just bread and milk, then?" he confirmed with a smile that bordered on a grimace. You nodded, and he headed back down the stairs. "I'll be back in a bit."

When the door closed and you were sure he was gone, you turned back to Sherlock.

"You were saying?" he asked, almost sneering. You were too flustered to be exasperated with him again.

"Alright. While I'll admit I enjoy his friendship a great deal, I couldn't possibly maintain a relationship. He, on the other hand, goes on dates nearly twice a week. He couldn't possibly fancy me. Case closed."

Your brother heaved a sigh, obviously wanting to say more but refraining. You pursed your lips and opened your laptop, wanting to forget about the nagging feeling in your mind that said maybe Sherlock was right. 

Or the hope that maybe you were wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter I'd already written that was just sitting around.  
> Just my attempt at getting the metaphorical ball rolling.
> 
> NaNoWriMo approcheth! Perhaps writing more of this will spark my writing bug. :)


	20. Chapter 20

It was about 3 am when your phone went off.

Regretting staying up late to finish writing down some notes for a song that had come to you at around midnight, you groaned and rolled over as best you could to grab it from the end table. The screen backlighting hit you in the face like a train, and you closed your eyes again. Who was texting you this late at night? And why? You blearily opened your eyes again and looked at the text.

_Need some extra spending quid? Shop online now at Abadir Supermarkets for some great deals!  
-M_

Just some grocery outlet spam? You rubbed your eyes and nearly went back to sleep—wait.

Adrenaline shot through your veins. Abadir Supermarkets didn't accept quid—they were a chain in Ethiopia. And most texts weren't signed '-M.'

"Sherlock!" you hollered, hoping against all hope that the number could be traced. Somewhere in the back of your mind you knew it couldn't... but maybe. Just maybe.

Your brother rounded the corner of the kitchen door just as John appeared at the top of the stairs. You hadn't meant to wake both of them. Bugger.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, a hint of concern in his face. You were always careful not to wake anyone up at night as you yourself hated to be woken. You knew he was thinking in worst-case scenarios—maybe this was one. You didn't know.

"He texted me."

Instantly, Sherlock had your phone in his hands. His eyes scanned the message briefly before looking back up.

"I'll try to trace the number, but it's unlikely that anything will turn up." You nodded. Just what you'd suspected.

"Wait, what does it say?" John had come the rest of the way down the stairs and was leaning on the back of the couch, looking down at the top of your head. You handed him the phone over your shoulder. There was a pause. "What does that mean?"

You sighed. "I don't know. The 'Abadir Supermarkets' could have something to do with where we last met. It's an Ethiopian chain. Not sure about the Euros... could be about a bank. It would make sense—he's a hostage-taker. He might have held a bank hostage before." You rubbed your temples. "It's cryptic. Just like him. James, what are you doing?"

"Hmm? Who's James? Is that his name?" John came around from the back of the couch and handed the phone over to Sherlock, who had come back into the room with some cables to connect it to his laptop.

"Oh, er... yeah." You rubbed your temples again and groaned quietly. It was 3 am, and you wanted to sleep.

Sherlock looked up with slightly slumped shoulders. "Untraceable."

You pursed your lips. "Well, I don't know what I was expecting. Sorry for waking you guys up."

"Oh, don't apologize," John said softly, smiling. "I don't mind."

You felt your cheeks warm a little, and with that a sense of dread. You shoved the conversation you'd had with Sherlock yesterday out of your head and with it the knot in your stomach.

"Thanks. Goodnight," you said warmly, stifling a yawn.

"Goodnight."

As soon as the last beam of light flickered out from the top of the stairs, you switched on your phone again.

_FWD: >>Need some extra spending quid? Shop online now at Abadir Supermarkets for some great deals!  
-M>> Mycroft, this just came on on my mobile. We couldn't trace it. What do you know?_

You looked at your watch, waiting for the second hand to tick past thirty. It usually didn't take your eldest brother longer than that. Sure enough, a comforting buzz warmed your hand a little.

_Meet me at 8 am. I'll find something out--I've got an idea. You rest._

You closed your eyes and lay back against the couch again. Rest sounded nice. Mycroft would take care of things.

 

It was 7:45.

You scribbled a quick note, saying, _Out to breakfast! Be back soon. -(f/i)_

Sherlock wouldn't like that you were going to Mycroft for help. But it was your amateur detective brother... or a high-up government worker who was the furthest from amateur and the more collected, reliable brother. On this visit to London you'd hardly seen Mycroft when you weren't in tears, and you just wanted to talk. And perhaps get some answers.

"(F/n). Get in." You looked up from the sidewalk to see the expected black car and one of Mycroft's employees in the driver's seat. Part of you had hoped Mycroft would come meet you himself, but mostly you were just glad he was meeting you at all. He was a busy man, and you knew that.

"Uh, if you could maybe help me get my wheelchair into the boot?" Your question sounded more like an apology.

"Let me help you with that." You swiveled around to see Mycroft getting out of the back seat.

"Mycroft!" He smiled at the look of surprise on your face. "You came yourself?"

You could have sworn his face looked sheepish for a moment, as though he felt bad that you'd come to expect an escort instead of your big brother. It would have been silly, though—you couldn't even remember the last time he'd come to pick you up personally. The whole family was used to it. "I thought we could go out to breakfast somewhere. You didn't already eat, did you?"

So your note wasn't exactly a lie. "No, I haven't. That sounds great, Myc—did you have someplace in mind?"

It wasn't any surprise when Mycroft dropped the name of one of the more expensive cafes in London. You smirked.

"Do you really think I look dressed for that? How about we go to my friend Rachel's? We were there a couple of weeks ago. She'll be happy to see me again." Mycroft nodded.

"Just as long as you can give my driver directions. What street is it on?"

After getting in, you leaned forward to tell the driver the general direction and street the small cafe was on. She nodded. You leaned back and closed your eyes. "I didn't get much sleep last night."

"I didn't either. I found out a few things about your message, though."

You opened your eyes to look at him disapprovingly. "How late were you up?"

"It doesn't matter." It sounded as though he hadn't slept after getting your message. You sighed. You had a great brother... sometimes too great.

"Well... what did you find?" The car slowed to a stop.

"Why don't I tell you once we have our food?"

You nodded. "Sounds good."

As usual, Rachel was thrilled to see you. She was always thrilled about something. "So, have you figured out why you fell off of that building yet?" She laughed. You grinned back at her.

"Not yet—I've got some ideas, but none of them seem very plausible." You spoke the truth, though you knew Rachel thought you were exaggerating.

Once you were seated, Mycroft gave you a look. "You were telling other people about this?"

You gave him a pained expression. "That was before I realized it was probably connected to my job."

He coughed, then opened the menu. "I assume you know that the situation we're dealing with here is not a normal situation."

It was your turn to cough. "Well of course, Mycroft! It's a hostage-taker we're talking about!"

"No, I meant..." He frowned. "It's a highly dangerous situation. You have to understand that."

"Well, obviously." You sounded like Sherlock, and for once you were proud you'd picked up some of your other brother's arrogant traits. Did Mycroft think this was new information?

He sighed again. "(F/n), he's certainly a hostage-taker, but—but he's more than that, too. He's... he's more dangerous than you may realize."

It took all your training and composure to pretend like you weren't feeling completely insulted. Did Mycroft think you knew nothing? James was the most dangerous man alive. You would claim that to the death. "I'm pretty sure I do realize. Mycroft—what's your point here?"

"My point is," he said, still looking thoroughly annoyed, "that I think I have an idea or two of what he's planning."

You nodded. "So do I. I haven't said as much because I don't want to scare—"

"John? That's a good idea. I've told Sherlock as much."

"Sherlock knows? Why?" You looked incredulously at Mycroft. Why should Sherlock know anything about James?

Mycroft frowned. "Sherlock knows enough. John, on the other hand, might do something irrational if he learned who was really pursuing you."

You felt defensive. "What do you mean? John's a perfectly rational man. He wouldn't do anything stupid, if that's what you mean." Deep down, you knew that wasn't quite true. There was a reason you hadn't told him or Sherlock everything you knew. Both men could be a little irrational.

Mycroft looked at you as if to echo your thoughts. "(F/n), we have to be careful. The less anyone knows, the better. Now, I have some ideas about where all these clues are leading us..."

The next couple of hours were spent talking over blueberry waffles, trying to keep expressions light and carefree so as not to concern any of the waitresses or other customers. The poker face was the easiest part of the conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO EVERYONE.   
> Yes, indeed, I live! My apologies for the long hiatus from this fic—life, drama performances, and final exams caught up with me, not to mention NaNoWriMo. I hope you all like it—I feel like all the gaps between chapters has made my writing a little worse since I'm not always "in the zone" like I usually was at first.
> 
> Merry Christmas, guys! I love all of you for encouraging me and enjoying my barely-updated fic!


	21. Chapter 21

"I'm back!" you called in a sing-song tone as you rolled through the door to the flat.

Footsteps. A pause.

"Welcome back." Sherlock stood awkwardly at the top of the stairs. You gave him a confused look and waited for him to help roll you up. "I just got a case."

"You mean a new one? That doesn't have anything to do with fretting over my mental condition?" You smiled. "That's great!"

He took a single step down, but kept his eyes trained on you. You looked at him. "What?"

"Is that—I mean, are you..." He gave you a look that read _Is this okay?_ You shook your head and gave him an incredulous look.

"Of course, Sherlock! You don't have to constantly keep watch over me just because I'm caught up in this little escapade." He looked like he wanted to correct you, but you corrected yourself first. "Okay, maybe it's not that little... but there's not much you can do right now. We both know you'll go crazy if you don't do something for much longer. Let the game be on!"

Underneath your encouraging smile you felt the pit of your stomach drop a little—you didn't want Sherlock to be distracted. You'd liked having your big brother around, making sure you were okay, talking to you, keeping you company. You'd miss him now that he would be going out on cases. It was all part of what Mycroft had in mind, though—Lestrade would hand Sherlock enough cases to keep him busy and content.

"I—there's some evidence I need to look at. Can we meet for lunch?" What he really meant was for you to remind him to eat. You smirked.

"Sure."

He nodded and came the rest of the way down the stairs, about to reach for the door handle. You cleared your throat, and he stopped. "What?"

"I can get down these stairs just fine, but trying to roll up them is a balancing act I'm not ready for." You laughed as your brother tried to pretend he hadn't nearly left you to fend for yourself at the bottom of the stairs, potential bait for Mrs. Hudson to try and make uncomfortably personal conversation with.

"Bye!" you called over your shoulder. "Have fun!" The door shut behind Sherlock, and you were on your own.

John was at work, you remembered. Disappointed that there was no one else to chat with, you rolled in an aimless circle for a few moments, debating whether or not you would tackle the teetering pile of dishes in the kitchen sink. It really needed to be done... but taking the time to get the tall barstool that you could sit on and still reach the counter would take so much effort. It could wait. Suddenly a little weary, you picked your laptop up off a cluttered end table and wheeled to sit right next to the window that overlooked the busy street below.

 

The next thing you knew, your head was snapping up at the sound of a door opening. Bugger—you hadn't actually fallen asleep, but just a few more seconds and you might have. How long had it been? Your watch told you less than half an hour. Thank goodness.

"Sherlock? Are you home?" A familiar voice came from behind you.

You felt a smile creep over your face. "John?"

"Oh, (f/n)! You're back! I'm on a quick lunch break from the hospital, and Sherlock isn't picking up his phone."

"Not picking up his phone? Well, he's got a case—he's probably distracted." You shut your laptop and set it down in Sherlock's arm chair, trying to shake off the blanket of sleepiness over your shoulders.

John's eyebrows raised. You nearly giggled, but bit your lip and refrained. It... wasn't even that funny. "A case?"

You saw where his thoughts were headed. "We both know he would have gone stir crazy after another couple of days. It's not hurting anyone, and it keeps him engaged. I really don't mind." That last bit was sort of a lie, but you were a good liar.

John nodded slowly. "I guess it's for the best. I was going to call him again to see about lunch, but—"

"He told me to call him at around lunchtime. I suppose he hasn't been gone for very long, but I'll call him anyways," you interrupted, knowing full well your brother was probably ignoring all other calls but yours. You only ever called when it was something important, especially if he was on a case, so he'd pick up if it was you. You explained this to John quickly as you dug your phone out of your pocket and punched in your brother's number.

"Hello?" He picked up after the second ring.

"Lunchtime, Sherly," you chirped. A groan came from the other end.

"I'll pick up some takeout, but I'm in the middle of something."

You sighed, then smiled faintly. "Sure. John and I can go somewhere together, then. I won't be alone."

A short pause. "Alright. I'll see you in a few hours at the very least." A click. You smirked at the bundles of tact oozing from your brother's end of the line and brought your phone down from your ear.

"Bye, then," you chuckled, flashing John a smile as you rolled over to grab your purse. "So... lunch?"

 

After a round of _I don't care, where do you want to go?_ s, you decided on a small cafe a couple of streets down from St. Bartholomew's. You weren't particularly hungry, so you ordered a cheese sandwich. Before you could pull out your wallet, John made his order at the cashier and paid for the both of you—you didn't protest but became increasingly aware of the fact that everyone who saw the both of you out would automatically assume you were a couple. You smiled a little, all the while cringing on the inside. You were _not_ starting to fancy John Watson. You could sit with the idea that others thought you did, but... no. You pursed your lips and tried to look neutral.

 

John folded his wallet and shoved it into his back pocket, a little surprised you hadn't insisted on paying for your own meal. He'd sort of expected it—out of the corner of his eye he'd seen you open your mouth slightly when he'd stepped up to order and then pay—but you'd let him. What did that mean?

Upon realizing he'd asked himself that question consciously, he bit his lip and took a deep breath. He wasn't about to go into analyst mode. It probably meant nothing. This wasn't like any other lunch out with a lady—for this one he had to squash any hope of anything working out. You'd told him what you'd thought about being in a relationship. And he'd overhead the tail end of a conversation with your brother. If it wasn't for your stupid, bloody job he might be able to sort out his feelings, he thought somewhat angrily. Taking a deep breath, he pushed aside his irrational feelings and decided to just enjoy your company while it lasted.

 

"So do you and Sherlock normally eat lunch together?" you asked once you had sat down at a table by the cafe window. John swallowed a bite of sandwich.

"Not all the time, of course," he said, "but we'll meet every so often, especially if he wants to mull over case details with me during the week." You hummed softly, picking up your drink to take a sip. "What do you normally do for lunch?"

He seemed to realize he'd made a mistake in asking this, and you laughed as his facial expression quickly went to apologetic. "Don't worry," you said kindly. "I'm not always holed up in a bank or small building trying to reason with the unreasonable. When I'm not on the job sometimes I'll weasel my way into the forensics department and help out there. Sherlock's helped me with analyzing data and evidence, so I'm pretty useful there when they need me. I'll go out to lunch with whoever's there at the time, usually to small cafes like this."

You could almost see the relief creep into John's countenance, along with a little curiosity. "Forensics? What sorts of things do you do there?"

The topic changed smoothly as you launched into a long-winded explanation about cadavers, blood testing, and crime scenes, all with wide eyes and broad hand gestures. You loved hostage negotiation, but forensics was a close second—something both you and your second-eldest brother excelled at. He caught the smaller details, and you liked to think you could place those details into the bigger picture (and relay them to the forensics staff without offending anyone or looking like an arrogant prat.)

As soon as you'd finished detailing how a crime scene was properly closed off, you realized John would need to be getting back to work. You checked your watch and looked back up. "When do you need to be getting back?"

John looked down at his wrist momentarily and sighed. "Right about now. I'd love to hear more, though—it's really fascinating."

"Really?" You felt like glowing in an uncomfortable way, trying to hide an unnaturally big grin.

"Yeah," he said with enthusiasm while getting out of his seat, "I mean, I've always thought the people who sealed off and investigated crime scenes were really intelligent—not to mention brave. I'd rather deal with live bodies, myself."

You laughed and rolled out from the table. "It's not as bad as you might think. We don't let them get to the point where they start to smell _often_."

 

The two of you meandered down the sidewalk, neither of you wanting to go your separate ways but both of you wondering if the other was getting impatient. You were certain John was going to be late getting back to work, but a knot of anxiety rested in your gut—you were anxious about him leaving? It was only to work, for goodness' sake! Your brow crinkled as you tried to shove the dreaded feelings down for your mind's psychotic wing to feed on. You couldn't fancy him—you had to ignore this, and then maybe the problem would go away.

"What's wrong?" The doctor's words laced with mild concern broke through your thoughts. You felt a jolt of nervousness rush through the pit of your stomach.

"I—ah, nothing," you stuttered, inwardly berating yourself for losing focus.

John slowed his walking pace and looked down into your eyes. "Really? Are you sure?"

You nodded quickly. "Yeah. Everything's fine. Just—just thinking."

"About what?"

And suddenly you were caught in an impossible moment where you had absolutely nothing to say. You could count on one hand the times this had happened before. You could barely _stop_ talking most of the time—and now you couldn't seem to form any words. Your unfocused mind combined with the nerves you now usually had when John was around were driving you crazy. Defeated, you just looked up at John and opened your mouth to try and come up with something. The case, Sherlock's experiments, maybe something else about forensics—John liked forensics, you thought. There it was again.

"You," you blurted, not thinking. Your face colored quickly and you felt like it was draining to white at the same time. You didn't dare look up to see what John looked like. Instead, you continued pushing the wheels of your wheelchair like nothing had happened. Maybe he wouldn't see your red cheeks. Silence.

After a long pause, you heard John clear his throat and stop walking. You slowed to a stop. "Well, I've got to get to work. That—that was fun. We should... we should do it again some time."

You looked up finally to see if he looked upset, sullen, worried. Instead, you found his face looked soft, kind. Your eyes met. The corners of his mouth twitched, and you pursed your lips—like you were trying to smile and trying not to cry at the same time. Everything felt confusing for a moment.

And then he leaned down and touched his lips to yours.

It happened so quickly you couldn't even close your eyes. He pulled away, gave you a quick smile, and then you were excusing yourself politely, saying you should probably head back to the flat, you'd see him that evening. The churning in your stomach drowned out most everything else as you silently navigated the roads back to the flat. It wasn't until you rounded the corner of Baker Street that you gently touched a hand to your lips and allowed a smile to seep through your defenses. Perhaps while no one was home, you decided, you could be a little giddy—just for a little bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3 yey
> 
> The kiss was meant to be a little rushed simply because you as the reader didn't have a whole lot of time to take it in, and John is going to have a little inner monologue in the next chapter. So ye shall understand what was going through his mind.
> 
> The next chapter won't come quite as quickly as this one as I'm busy most of tomorrow and don't really know where the next chapter is headed—I have point A and point B but the line to connect them is a little jagged. But never fear! Hopefully you shall see it before the week is out.


	22. Chapter 22

Maybe it was the way you'd avoided his eyes. Maybe it was the way you'd finally looked up with an expression of uncertainty, frailty, apology. Maybe it was his own frustration at the situation. Maybe it was because he hadn't fully realized he'd wanted to. Whatever the reason it was that he'd kissed you, John Watson wasn't sure it had been good one.

He'd started thinking about it halfway to his office, when the thrill had begun to fade and he could think clearly again. Uncertainty clouded his mind as he rolled the kiss, your polite smile, how you hadn't looked upset, but you hadn't looked particularly pleased, either, through his mind. He frowned and shut the filing cabinet he'd been shuffling through—there was no way he'd be able to concentrate on sorting through patient files. Perhaps he'd better take a quick walk. _Another_ quick walk. He'd taken countless walks today with a shortage of patients. Too much time to think, he thought irritably.

Were you happy? Were you upset? Had he done the right thing? How was he going to face both you and Sherlock this evening? He'd never been a particularly socially-adept man, and he could just picture an awful, stuttering mess as he tried to act normal and keep Sherlock from suspecting anything. Which would be bloody impossible, he thought with a bitter edge. Why had he even bothered? Now he was left with a jealous brother and... and a withdrawn you, he figured. Whether you liked him the way he liked you or not, you seemed the type who might pull away.

John let out a heavy sigh and pushed the glass office doors outwards, letting the chilly, brisk air sting his face, trying to forget the iron-coated anxiety resting in his gut.

 

"And then what?" You sat curled up awkwardly in an armchair, your clunky casts slung over an arm, your elbow propped up on the other, your mobile to your ear.

"Well," your friend Hannah's voice came from the speaker, "you have to make a move now. He's made his, so let him know you're interested."

"But how? I left him on the sidewalk with some lame excuse to get home! He probably thinks I hate him!" The stupidity of this entire conversation was not overlooked by you in the slightest.

A light chuckle from the other end. "Believe me—if he likes you that much, he'll be receptive to any attention you give him. He probably wants to know if you hate _him_."

You frowned. "Girl problems are ten times harder when you're an adult."

"(F/n), is that you?" You put a hand over the receiver. Sherlock.

"Hold on, Hannah—I've got to go. My brother's home. Can I text you later?" When she agreed, you said goodbye and put your phone down. "Yeah, Sherly—it's me. Who else would it be?"

He appeared in the door frame at the top of the stairs, shaking his head. "I don't know—I'm a bit tired. This is an exceedingly difficult case."

You swung your legs over the arm of the chair and sat up. "Is something wrong?"

"Hm? No, no—it's just been a long day. I need to think." He moved to sit down in his armchair, then stopped. "Why are you sitting in John's chair?"

You felt your stomach drop. Why _were_ you sitting in John's chair? "I—oh, I don't know. His is squishier." A nice save, you thought proudly. Sherlock's face said otherwise.

"(F/n), I've already spoken with you about this. You can't—"

"I can't what? Sit in a comfortable chair?" You opted to stick by your slight lie to get your brother to drop the subject. Sherlock only shook his head again and collapsed into his own chair, not even touching his fingers together under his chin like he usually did when he needed to think. You wondered if he was sleeping.

Turning back to your mobile, you breathed a quiet sigh of relief. It seemed your brother was too mentally exhausted to deduce anything you were thinking about—or you'd just done an alright job of not looking flustered. Suddenly uninterested in texting Hannah, you hoisted yourself into your wheelchair and went to find a blanket. You grabbed one off of Sherlock's bed, wheeled back to him, and placed it gently over his shoulders. He gave a quiet grunt of thanks, and you smiled. Troubling times and all, being back with your family—or part of your family, at least—was really nice.

You glanced up at the clock and figured you would have enough time to start on dinner before Sherlock finished thinking (or sleeping) and John arrived home.

John.

A shiver of nervousness went down your back as you rolled into the kitchen. You had a few hours to shake it and pull yourself together... and maybe think of some casual conversation starter.

 

Just as you were taking a casserole out of the oven, you heard raised voices in the living room.

"... supposed to know? You asked me once and didn't check to see if I'd heard!" There was John—he must have just gotten home, and already Sherlock had gotten on his nerves. You got the feeling that this evening wasn't going to be a very pleasant one.

"I asked you to pick up eggs, nails, and some bromine," Sherlock said irritably.

"Well, I didn't hear the last part, okay?" You wheeled into the room and into the middle of the heated argument.

"Is everything alright?" you asked, looking at Sherlock but not John.

Sherlock grunted. "It doesn't matter."

You raised your eyebrows. "It sounded like it did from the kitchen."

"What you heard was John overreacting," he said cooly, raising his own eyebrows slightly and crossing his legs. You heard an indignant cough.

"Oh, so now it's me who's overreacting! You—you're just so—" John gave a loud huff and crossed his arms, glancing towards the door as though he were about to leave. You closed your eyes and tried to calmly come up with a solution, but nothing was coming. Plan B: distractions.

"Hey, uh—I made a casserole for dinner if you guys want any." Sherlock waved his hand as though to shoo you away, and you gave an insulted huff. "Sherlock Holmes, if you're not hungry you don't need to be _rude_ about it."

"We appreciate your efforts to stop this argument, but we'd rather you didn't intervene, (f/n)." Sherlock looked at you with narrowed eyes as though to dismiss you. John gave him an incredulous glare of his own.

"I don't need you to speak for me, Sherlock," he said coldly, then turned to walk down the steps. This situation was spiraling from bad to worse, and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

"John! John, wait!" Nothing.

You gave Sherlock one last glare before wheeling towards the door yourself.

 

The cool night air was like a slap in the face as John shut the door firmly behind him, not wanting to slam it but all the same not feeling in the mood to do anything gently. He walked down the street briskly, shivering a little but thankful he hadn't taken his coat off upon getting home. He had it with him now, trying to shield some of the cold that threatened to reach his bones.

He felt a little angry warmth return to him as he thought of his insufferable flat mate. The stubborn git could never see anything from any other side but his own, John thought, not for the first time in his life. The quiet of the night suddenly registered in his brain—there were hardly any cars out, at least on Baker Street and the immediate streets surrounding it. It reminded him a little of the night he'd found you on the ground, unconscious and severely injured. He hadn't thought of that image for a while, and he found the memory of seeing your body made him feel a little sick. He couldn't ever let that happen again.

"John! John, wait!" He turned to see you wheeling frantically towards him.

"What is it?" he asked, wondering if something was wrong. You slowed to a stop a few meters in front of him, and by the hesitant look on your face he judged you hadn't thought through what you were going to say this far ahead.

"I-I, uh... just wanted to make sure you were okay," you finally said, looking at him almost a little warily. A part of John ached knowing that it was him you were wary of, wondering if he was still going to be upset.

"Yeah," he said, trying to sound amiable. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Oh. Okay."

Though the snow from the winter had melted weeks ago, it was still freezing out, especially at night. You'd come out of the flat with a thin cotton shirt and jeans, and now you were shivering. Wincing a little at the biting chill, John shrugged off his jacket and stepped a little closer to offer it to you. "You're cold—take this."

You took it but looked at him skeptically. "And you're not cold?"

John shook his head. "I'll be alright." You still looked skeptical, but you put it on and seemed to visibly relax from the warmth.

"It's a nice night," you sighed, looking around contentedly. John nodded.

"It really is. D-d'you want to join me for a walk?" He almost couldn't believe the words that had popped out of his mouth, but aside from the slight hesitation he'd sounded casual enough. When you gave him a smile and a "Sure!" he felt a giddy rush of relief and excitement—you were acting like your usual self, so there weren't any hard feelings.

 

The usual twinge of happiness you had around John flared into a sort of small candle flame inside you as you moved to pull up beside him. You hadn't really known what to say once you'd gotten down the stairs (a tedious but do-able task in a wheelchair) and out the door. You'd nearly asked him to come back... but you'd been worried he was still going to be angry with Sherlock. So you'd merely asked him to wait.

"How was work today?" you asked, wracking your brains for questions that were casual and not suggestive at all, a task more difficult now that you were actually with John and not brainstorming frantically in the kitchen.

He grunted. "Same as usual, I guess. Not too many patients today, so a little bit of a nice break."

"Well that's good," you said slowly, still trying to think of something else to say. "Hey—I'm sorry about my brother. He just gets like that sometimes, and—"

John put a hand on your shoulder and looked down at you. "No, it's not a big deal—I think we both know how Sherlock can get. Don't feel bad on his behalf," he said, a soft smile covering his features in a kind way. You swallowed and held eye contact, something you normally wouldn't do—but Hannah's advice had been to make a move. _Was prolonged eye contact a "move"?_

"Sorry. I've just gotten used to apologizing for him—you know we used to solve cases together when I was off work like this, so I had to make it a habit," you remembered somewhat fondly.

John chuckled. "That's something I think we both have to do quite regularly." That was right—you'd forgotten that John often went with your brother out on cases. A common ground you were wary of sharing with anyone else—but John was alright, you thought.

A buzz in your pocket startled you a little, and you reached down to see who'd texted you. _Your casserole tastes a bit burnt, but the onions make up for it._

A grin spread across your face. "I believe we've received an apology," you laughed, showing the text to John. His brow wrinkled.

"How exactly is this an apology?" he asked. You looked at him for a moment.

"He never eats while working on a case, John," you said, looking up at him from the corner of your eye as though it were obvious. He thought for a moment, then laughed.

_Apology accepted. I think the chemist is closed, but do you want us to pick up the eggs?_

You looked at John as if to ask if you could offer for the both of you, and he nodded. Moments later, you received a reply. _Perhaps the nails, too, if you can find any. 4 inches._

"No 'please' as usual, but we know he meant it," you sighed. "Where do they sell eggs _and_ four-inch nails?"

John squinted, thinking. "I think there's a hardware store next to the supermarket not far from here."

"Brilliant. Lead the way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was going to be a lot longer, but I decided to cut it short just because it was getting really long and I owe you guys a chapter. I promised this like a week ago.
> 
> I'm definitely losing interest in writing this (not because it's boring--it's just moving really slowly!) but I'm hoping to get to the end very soon. I just need to push through school (which is starting in two days) and all the activities that come with it. These next few weeks might be pretty slow. I won't promise much. Basically, my dilemma is that I have the next event all planned and the characters haven't all caught up to the emotional state they need to be in for it to happen. GAHH. Characters. Why.
> 
> Well, I'll see you when I see you! The next update might be a couple of weeks. I've started work on a few oneshots for varying fandoms, so if my motivation for this story wavers, I might finish one of those and post it--I have a goal to write something every day, so if I'm not working on English papers my remaining energy might go into those. (LOTR ftw ^^)


	23. Chapter 23

Sherlock set his fork down with a clatter on his plate, the half-eaten casserole slice staring up at him like a piece of brick. This was why he never ate while working on a case, he mused. His train of thought had derailed, and he was now desperately trying to get it back on the tracks.

 _She wouldn't have had a good enough motive—unless..._ He frantically hunted for a pen and pad of paper and, finding a notepad under the sofa, scratched down a few incoherent ideas in shorthand. _That_ might be a conclusion. He would just have to examine the boots again.

A generic text tone jarred him once again from his thoughts.

_On our way to the store now._

He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples—not for the first time that day, either. Something irked him about the message. Not that it had jerked him from his thoughts... it was mostly the use of the possessive adjective 'our.'

He knew exactly what you would say if you'd been able to read his mind. _Sherly, not this again,_ you would protest. _I've already told—_

"Yes, I know, (f/n)," he grunted aloud, "and you're lying." It was clear as day to him—his flatmate was no longer just 'Sherly's flatmate' or 'some doctor.' Why did this bother him so much, though? He shook his head and cursed his human caviling against you. He couldn't technically find anything wrong with the possibilities your and John's affection brought. It just... frustrated him. He knew other men grew jealous when their own significant other fancied another person, but he felt no romantic attraction to anyone—and you were his sister, obviously. Nothing but brotherly affection there. This possessive and slightly jealous side of him didn't conform to any logic, he thought angrily.

His phone once again jarred him from his thoughts. He glanced at the caller. _Mycroft._ Stiffly, he swiped right to take the call.

"Yes, brother?"

 

Your hands tightened around the edges of the box of eggs, and the plastic grocery bag around it crinkled lightly. Hopefully the tension in your body language would escape the doctor—hopefully, even if it didn't, he wouldn't know that the reason you were so tense was because he was so casually pushing your wheelchair. Like it was just an everyday thing he always did.

Not, obviously, that you would mind if it became an everyday thing—wait, what? First of all, you were not going to start fancying John. The logical side of your brain still blared alarms, screaming that even if it was the most fantastic idea you'd ever had, you still had a job to get back to and then everything would fall apart. Secondly, you weren't going to be in this wheelchair for much longer. So of course—

"(F/n)?"

You clenched the egg box tighter. "Sorry, what?"

"D'you think we should pick up some milk?"

You let out a sharp breath of amusement. "John, we were just in the store—it's probably best we just grab the nails and go home. Plus, I'd rather not go back in and have the cashier stare at us."

You heard John chuckle behind you. "I'm sure people forget something and have to go back in often enough—but it is getting late, so maybe we can get the milk tomorrow."

"Alright—to the hardware store," you said. "You'll have to do everything. I have no idea how to get around in these types of places."

"You mean you've never been to a hardware store before?" John asked. You could almost see the amused surprise on his face.

"Well, I have—I just don't go very often. I'm not really a handy person," you admitted.

"I'm sure you'd be rather good at building things since you're a good artist." A small smile crept across your face for a moment, but sheer willpower and a little fear chased it away. A gust of frigid air swept over you as soon as you entered through the glass door of the hardware store. Thankful for John's coat draped over your shoulders, you looked around curiously.

The spacious store had aisles stacked high with all sorts of piping and wires you had no idea how to use, and the towering piles of chicken wire, plywood, and cardboard boxes filled to the brim with what looked like the contents of every kitchen junk drawer in existence overwhelmed you a little. Perhaps it was a good thing John still had his grip on the handles of your wheelchair, or you would have stopped altogether just to get your bearings. He seemed to know exactly where he was going, as his pace never slowed.

"Ooh, what's over there?" You craned your neck to get a better view of an aisle filled with what seemed to be notebooks.

"Where?" John slowed to a stop, and you wheeled off in the direction of the notebooks, exclaiming, "Whoa, waterproof hardcovers!"

A few minutes and one stack of notebooks in your lap later, you'd decided that you liked hardware stores. "We've got to come here more often," you chirped, not looking up from your stack of treasures as John rounded the corner with some nails in a small paper bag.

John smiled. "Ready to go?"

The nervous energy you'd been feeling since that afternoon exploded into borderline panic. You weren't sure what had triggered it or why, but suddenly the way John was looking at you made your heart want to shrivel up and beat a million times faster all at the same time. Perhaps the fact that you were alone in the empty aisle of a hardware store was the cause. Perhaps the fact that John wasn't behind you any longer and you could see his face had something to do with it. For a brief second you felt the nervous energy show on your face in a mixture of panic and uncertainty; but only for the briefest of seconds, because your calm, collected demeanor you usually reserved for hostage situations washed it all away.

"Okay." Oh. Perhaps too sudden of a change. Smile a little—stop looking so surly. No, less happy. Peaceful, maybe. John gave you a concerned look.

"Is anything the matter?"

Right. Shifting from chipper to serene wasn't usually the best of moves. It might startle the threat, make them suspicious, make them draw their gun. You shot him a suave, nearly seductive smile. "Everything's fine."

"(F/n)."

It took you a moment to place what was so wrong about this situation. John was not a threat. Going hostage-negotiation-calm was _not_ a good idea. You felt the panic begin to seep through a little bit. "I-I'm sorry. That doesn't usually happen. Um, I don't know how to explain it but sometimes I just do that when I'm stressed and I act a little weird because it's how I cope when I'm being threatened, I didn't mean—I didn't want to—I... I don't know." Tears sprang to the corners of your eyes. How were you supposed to explain to John that you'd freaked out a little romantic tension? How was he supposed to understand that your natural reaction to stress was to turn calm and treat the stressor like a man with a gun and psychotic tendencies?

"You feel threatened?"

Oh, you'd said too much. Now everything was even more complicated. "I—no, no, I just—I didn't mean that, I just... I don't know," you said again. And you really didn't. Whether it was hormonal issues, your emotional exhaustion catching up with you, the stress of your injuries, or a combination of stessors, you just didn't know.

John took a few steps towards you and bent down to be on the same level as you. "Hey. It's going to be okay."

You took a few deep breaths and tried to quell the swirling clouds of confusion in your gut. "I—sorry. I just got a little stressed. Not even sure why. I'm okay."

You expected John to stand back up again, but he stayed where he was for a fleeting moment. He bit the inside of his cheek, like he was trying to hold back something. You bit your lip and looked away, a new surge of nerves surfacing. It was now or never, you thought. A situation like this, being close to John and _alone,_ alone without anyone to see, something that could be easily forgotten if needed—this wasn't likely to happen again.

You leaned forward and closed the distance between the two of you.

You sensed John's surprise as he tensed for a moment, but he quickly relaxed into the kiss. It was as though an invisible wall had broken between you—John no longer doubted your feelings, and you no longer wanted to push away from him. He kissed you softly and sweetly, almost hesitantly. You felt his uncertainty and pushed back a little, wanting to show him that this was okay. You were okay.

You nearly opened your mouth to deepen the kiss, but he pulled away for air. "Probably should continue this somewhere else, yeah?"

Right. This was still a hardware store. Not very romantic, you mused. "Yeah," you agreed, biting your lip as a shy smile and soft blush enveloped your features. "Sounds good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow.  
> It's been a few months.  
> Sorry guys.
> 
> I'm very bad and slow when it comes to fluff, so that's something I'm working on. I promise there'll be some more soon! Also, expect some action! Hooray for Moriarty! XD Thanks so much for bearing patiently with me, you guys. You deserve way more than one measly little chapter.


	24. Chapter 24

As soon as John had finished heaving your wheelchair up the stairs, you could sense that Sherlock sensed something was off. And what if he sensed that you sensed that he sensed something? Too much sensory overload. You were way too giddy, you decided with a faint grin to yourself.

Honestly, if you had been in Sherlock's place, you probably would have sensed something was off, too. The way your cheeks felt a little rosier than the cold would allow for, John's absent-minded humming, the way his jacket was draped over your shoulders... wait. You hurriedly shrugged it off and pretended as though nothing had been there.

"Hey, Sherly. We're back! Here's your eggs and nails," you said as casually as you could muster. Sherlock, even though he was usually the most suspicious of your true thoughts, seemed to buy it—you'd had a lot of practice 'acting casual' around him, Mycroft, and your parents to the point that it was near perfection. Even more practice being calm under pressure at work ensured that your tells were slight if even there. You saw a light fog of suspicion hovering over your brother's eyes as he took the packages from your hand; the doubt lifted, though, as his face began to sparkle with the only true wonder he found in the world: chemistry.

"I think I have just enough bromine to start a control," he muttered excitedly, the corners of his lips turning up just barely into a small smile as though he didn't want his excitement to be known.

"You're welcome," you called jestingly as he hurried off to the kitchen without a second glance. Perhaps you heard a muffled grunt, perhaps not; shrugging, you grinned and wheeled over to take your usual place on the couch, grabbing your laptop from the cluttered coffee table and flipping it open. "Hey, what time is it?"

John looked up so quickly you wondered if he'd gotten whiplash. "It's... ah..." He looked down again to check his watch. "It's about 9 o'clock."

"Oh, wow. We were out for like an hour or two. A while, anyway." The air thickened a little as you laughed obnoxiously and then felt a wave of awkward regret wash over the room. As tempted as you were to blame the sudden rush of heat on Sherlock turning up the thermostat, this time you couldn't really get out of it. You were flustered. You tried not to let this fluster you even more.

"Hm. So, what's the plan for tomorrow?" You hid your surprise at John's efforts to keep the conversation going. Any other person would have let it die and left you to wonder why you were only a smooth talker in hostage situations.

"Well, you've got work, and I've got to make a tedious run to the bank..."

"We can do that at lunch," John offered quickly. _We?_ Butterflies returned to your stomach with a vengeance even as you laughed internally at John's adorable eagerness, trying to hold back a smile. He was basically a puppy, you thought.

"Yeah, that sounds good," you agreed, finally allowing a grin to creep over your face.

 

Sounds of laughter drifting from the living room and troubling thoughts about the day to come pulled Sherlock out of his Chemistry-fueled state of childish excitement. Placing a vial gently back into its holder, he pursed his lips and set to reason with himself. Too many loose files he needed to sort into rooms in his mind palace.

More laughter and the sound of your voice carrying gaily brought one of many problems to the front of his mind. Whether you denied it or not, it was clear to everyone who saw you and John with each other that you fancied each other. Was this a problem in itself? Not particularly. He wasn't worried about your denial of it or the mere fact that the two of you felt happier around each other. What did worry him was the impending reality of when you finally stopped denying it and the two of you...

Ah. There was the problem. He didn't know what would happen after the two of you admitted to your feelings, and for some reason he was unhappy about whatever would occur. He supposed this was a little bit of jealousy—something he'd never felt particularly strongly over you, as you'd never had any serious boyfriends and he'd never thought very hard about having to... to _share_ your affections with anyone other than Mycroft. He didn't actually want to call his brother to see if this jealous apprehension was normal, seeing as he didn't really know how to put his thoughts into words... but this new feeling plagued him even after he'd identified what he supposed it was. Another, unrelated, thought surfaced, and he quickly filed this train of thought under "needs further consideration."

Once again, thoughts of the day to come had interrupted his methodical reasoning. Had anyone been watching, they would have seen his pacing slow for a moment, seen his scowl deepen and his eyes darken with worry. Not for the first—or even the hundredth—time, he hoped in vain that things would go according to plan. With schemes like this one, the waiting was always the hardest. There were too many variables for his liking—too many _people_ involved for his liking.

But there wasn't much he could do to solve this problem, either. And chemistry wasn't fun anymore when part of his mind was constantly elsewhere. Carefully placing a plug in the top of the vial he'd placed in its holder, Sherlock resolved to go to bed—sleep usually helped clear his mental fog. Though, he thought with a twinge of doubt, he wondered if it would do anything to ease the worry tomorrow held in store for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW WOW WOW this is a long time in coming! But here it is :) Things are about to get a lot more exciting. 
> 
> I'm on vacation now, so that means updates will be coming much faster. Yay!


	25. Chapter 25

You found that conversing with John only got easier as time went on.

With each of you just as eager to keep the conversation going as the other, you continued talking long after Sherlock had poked his head in to announce he was heading to bed. You noted, after briefly popping into the kitchen to make two mugs of tea, that he hadn't bothered to finish setting up the experiment you'd bought him the supplies for. Your brow furrowed for a moment—he must be quite distracted by something.

Your own conscious was lost in a myriad of confusing thoughts, as well. Worries that, even though John had kissed you back, you'd somehow done it wrong and muddled the whole thing and just created tension that wouldn't go away for all of eternity. Worries that, even if things were going alright, you'd somehow mess it up later. Worries about tomorrow and what the outcome of Mycroft's plan would be. You wished that the final worry could be the one in the front of your mind—this new relationship drama felt as petty as gossiping about it in primary school did. Unfortunately, you could barely peel your mind from it. Tomorrow was merely a dark speck in your subconscious. Perhaps it was what Sherlock was worried about, though.

Coming back from the kitchen with two steaming mugs of tea, you saw that John had relocated from his armchair to the sofa, where he was looking at something on your laptop.

"Checking out my browsing history, are you?" you asked jestingly, setting the mugs of tea onto the end table next to the sofa. There wasn't anything open on your laptop (or any files that needed to be kept private, even) that you were worried about him seeing, unless—oh no. The pit of your stomach dropped into your socks. You hadn't left his _blog_ open, had you? The thought proved so horrifying, you'd accepted it as fact and decided to wallow in shame for the rest of eternity until you noticed there were only two tabs open, and both of them were Google searches. Thank heavens.

John looked over at you as you lifted yourself from your wheelchair to sit back down, and you realized that you were both sitting on the sofa now. More butterflies. "I was just doing a quick search for something," he explained. "But I couldn't help but notice—why were you looking up Maori sentence syntax?"

"Because it's confusing," you started, "and I have no idea how they order the words in their sentences. There aren't very many online resources for learning it, and I can't just fly out to New Zealand, so—"

"But why do you want to learn?" he interrupted, a small chuckle escaping him. You paused, considering the question for a few moments.

"I... I don't know. It's one of those things you decide you want to do at 3 am. I'll probably give up on it tomorrow once I've gotten enough sleep," you shrugged. "Speaking of which... we should probably head to bed soon."

John nodded but didn't say anything. There was a sudden change in atmosphere; the Maori language forgotten, you fidgeted slightly and looked uncertainly from the floor to John and back again. John shut the laptop and set it down next to him, shifting over as he did so and then carefully placing an arm around your shoulders. Without thinking very hard about it, you let your head fall on his shoulder, humming softly as his thumb stroked your arm. A jolt of nervous energy prickled through you as you felt him shift. Your eyes trailed upwards. Was he going to—?

As you tilted your head upwards, John leaned down and met your lips in a chaste kiss that lingered for a moment before growing sweeter. Your eyes fluttered shut, and you felt the prickling nervousness settle low in your gut and become something more. You stayed like that for a few moments, softly kissing and savoring each second until the need for air pulled you apart. Completely out of your element, you stared at John with slightly parted lips until he leaned back in to take control once more.

This time, sweetness quickly faded away as the kiss escalated into something more heated. You began to get the hang of it, growing less passive and more sure of yourself as it went on. Somehow—your mind felt too fuzzy to remember exactly how—your arms found their way around John's neck, cast and all, and your tongues were flitting hesitantly over one another's lips. Ducking your head to pull away for air, you let out a quiet sigh and nestled in closer to him.

Growing sleepy, you lay there for a long while, one arm draped over John's shoulder as he held you in a loose embrace. A warm feeling spread from your core over your entire body; somehow this felt so natural, like it was something you'd always done. There was no awkward stiffness or nervous tension—it was like an invisible barrier had been broken, and now you felt safe and content rather than uncomfortable. The relief was almost tangible—you felt a wave of exhaustion sweep over you, and suddenly the knowledge of _just how tired you were_ hit you. The last thing you remembered was the feeling of John's jumper against your cheek.

 

_0300 hours._

_Myc, why aren't you in bed? You've got a long day ahead of you tomorrow._ Your voice rang loud and clear in the eldest Holmes brother's head, reminding him of what he already knew. Had you been there, he knew it was exactly what you would tell him. Letting out a quiet groan, he got up from his desk to at least take a short stroll, if not actually go to bed. A feeling of self-loathing caught him off-guard again—how could he be asking you to do this? Experience it all over again? Finally put an end to what had been started? Yet over and over again you'd assured him that it was for the best and that you could handle it. That you were stronger now. That you'd stay in control. How you could say those things with such confidence and without flinching went completely past him. Were you just using another one of your tricks to get him to believe what you wanted him to? No, he reasoned; no one could say things with such conviction without some sort of tell that would alert him to the lie. You would do your best, and you were doing so willingly.

He slowly rolled back the comforter and sheet, reassuring himself over and over with the same thoughts that had been running through his mind all day. Tomorrow would be life-altering for the Holmes family. Whether for good or for bad, he couldn't even begin to guess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE IS ANOTHER KISS YOU GUISE. This makes me happy *^-^*
> 
> And the next few chapters are going to be some of the coolest, most badass ones in this entire fic. So be prepared.   
> _(I do hope my foreshadowing hasn't been too obnoxious. I never meant to shroud it all in mystery, just leave it up to the reader's imagination. It's gonna be pretty big.)_


	26. Chapter 26

“So,” you began hesitantly before taking a sip of your fruit smoothie, “what are your thoughts?”  
  
Mycroft, too, seemed slightly uneasy, as he waited for a moment before replying—or it could have been that he had just taken a large bit of strawberry pancake and had wanted to chew and swallow before beginning. You placed your bets on the latter. “Well, I suppose we should start from the beginning. What exactly are you doing in London, (f/n)?”  
  
This silent tip-off alerted you to the fact that he’d met up with Sherlock. A knot tightened in your stomach; if Mycroft had gone to Sherlock, things suddenly looked more serious. Your eldest brother was trying to tell you not to dance around the subject. You swallowed before answering. “I can’t give exact details,” you started, and he nodded knowingly—your work exceeded even his level of confidentiality at times, “but I received word from someone—ah, I mean, James, sorry—that he was going to be in London the following week and that my ‘trench-coat-loving friend’ had better watch out. Naturally, the only friend we both share with a trench coat is Sherlock; I knew James could only be toying with me, but I had to come all the same. He knew that, and we both knew I couldn’t stay away. So I came.”  
  
“And then?” Mycroft pressed as the memories behind your eyes grew a little foggier.  
  
“Once I got to London, I… it gets a little harder to remember, but I checked into my usual bed and breakfast place—Sherlock found my luggage there later—and used the clues in James’ message to find where his hiding spot was. We both knew I’d find it. He was waiting there for me when I reached the seventh floor and stepped out of the elevator. I—he talked about… about what he planned to do, and…”  
  
“And what did he plan to do?” Mycroft asked, a little softer this time, the faint pain on your face not surprising him at all. He thought he knew what the man had told you.  
  
“He told me he wanted to ‘take me out for one more spin,’ do a repeat of the last time we’d met.” _It’d be so much more romantic this time, darling._ You grimaced at the memory, making sure you still had a handle on yourself. You did. This was under control.  
  
“Hmm.” Mycroft took another bite from his pancake and chewed thoughtfully. You sipped your smoothie and then turned to the bacon-and-cheese omelet in front of you. “And what exactly do you think that entails?”  
  
“Probably taking some people hostage, flirting with me, and eventually making a really dramatic exit after terrorizing the civilians and getting rich in the process,” you said with a nonchalant tone, poking a little fun at the grave situation. You swore you saw your brother’s lips twitch. “The thing that scares me the most about him is just how unpredictable he is, to be honest. I don’t know what he wants or how he intends to get it. It feels like he just really enjoys messing with me—and why would someone with so much power choose _me_ of all people?”  
  
You’d mulled over this countless times before; a few logical conclusions remained. The first was the connection to your brothers—both were very prominent figures in (or outside, rather) the criminal world; anyone with a grip on the two Holmes brothers would have a lot of power in the world of crime. The second was that the man was just unpredictable. That scared you more than you cared to admit; that James might simply be insane. This would give you no leverage, to motive to go off of—if he’d simply found a pretty lady whose hostage-saving strategies got him all hot and bothered, you could do nothing about it. You could sense James’ intellect—he was the furthest thing from stupid—but intellect often came with a hard price to pay. With a quiet snicker, you pictured yourself elbowing Sherlock in the ribs at this remark. _In his case, perhaps the price is social functionality._  
  
Mycroft shook his head. “A man like him has many reasons for doing what he does, none of which could possibly be understood.”  
  
A silence settled over your table as the two of you let your focus drift back to the plates in front of you. No more conversation interrupted the scraping of forks and knives until you set down your utensils to use your napkin, the spongy remains of your omelette barely visible among large puddles of melted cheese and chives.  
  
“That was good,” you sighed contentedly. “I love Rachel’s.”  
  
Mycroft said nothing about the meal, but his agreement to your sentiment was not missed by you. He cleared his throat and set down his water glass. “Shall we discuss a plan of action, then?”  
  
You quirked an eyebrow. “I take it you’ve already come up with a preliminary one yourself.”  
  
“Well, naturally I couldn’t come unprepared,” he said, pulling out a couple of sheets of paper from his briefcase. “Obviously you’re going to be lured into a hostage situation. It’s going to be in London—and the only bank you have an account registered in besides the one under my name is at TSB. We’re going to assume he holds you and a few others hostage there.”   
So far it all made sense. With your injuries, you were technically off-duty; James would have to get you into the bank first before he could take anyone hostage. Mycroft would then assure those concerned that you were a professional; you wouldn’t need any negotiators for backup. Naturally, your prior experience with James and your already being in the situation would make it so that James had you all to himself. The plan was fairly straightforward—unless you decided to do all your banking online.  
  
As though Mycroft could read your thoughts (and with his extensive knowledge on body language, it was likely he could to some extent), he added, “If we don’t walk into his trap, he’s likely going to make your life a living hell until we do. He knows that, and he knows we know that.”  
  
You nodded thoughtfully. “There’s really no way out of this, is there?”  
  
“No,” he said with an apologetic tone. “There’s not much of one, I’m afraid.”  
  
It should have scared you that no one, not even your brother with his hands in the entire government, could stop the man who’d made your waking and sleeping life a living hell for the past six months. No one could track him, no one could figure him out, no one even knew where to start. It should have scared you that you were being forced into this plan of action; you were the bait on the end of the fish hook, and it was up to Mycroft to swing the club and whack the trout on the head before it could swallow you whole.  
  
The truth was, though, that you felt nothing. A twinge of unease, perhaps; a small feeling of excitement, even, at the thought of drawing up a strategy and using that calculating logic you kept hidden deep inside for those drastic, adrenaline-sucking situations. As a Holmes, you craved dangerous things; for Mycroft, it was global relations; for Sherlock, murder—for you, talking people down when they held a loaded gun to the heads of fifty people gave you a high like no other. In a way, you looked forward to meeting James again; the rush he’d given you had felt like nothing else. The low after the high, though, had put you out of action for half a year. It wasn’t worth it—you weren’t doing this to fuel anything now. So you felt nothing. No fear, no thrill, no trepidation. Nothing.  
  
You cleared your throat. “So what plans do you have in mind?”


	27. Chapter 27

You’d thought you were prepared.  
  
You’d thought the tears and the shaking and the trembling lower lip and the twitching eye lid were over with; you’d sobbed your heart out at Baker Street after bottling it up for half a year, and your tear ducts were dry. Apparently your body could replenish them faster than you thought.  
  
Your gut had tightened as you saw the front of the bank come into view. It squeezed the rest of your insides now, threatening to slide your breakfast out of your stomach as you rolled up the ramp to the building. Would he be there? How many people were inside? Where were the ground crew members Mycroft had spoken about earlier? Oh, well of course they’d be hidden. _Not from James, they won’t be._  
  
You jerkily reached up to pull the handle of the glass door, having to stretch your arm over the side of your wheelchair handle and pull from an odd angle so that you could wedge it open; a rotund, matronly woman with a new perm and platinum blonde hair color opened it the rest of the way for you, and you wheeled inside with a polite _thank you very much_ before rolling to the back of the queue. Your eyes darted around with seizure-like rigidity, the only sign that something was wrong.  
  
You hadn’t been prepared for seeing the bank, but there it had been. You hadn’t been prepared for going inside, but here you were. Everything had been falling into place; until you saw him.  
You weren’t prepared to see _him_.  
  
He stood, third in the queue, wearing a light olive pinstripe suit, not a hair out of place, his shoes immaculately shiny. From the way he held himself, his feet pointing forward and his body perfectly centered towards the register, you knew he was aware of your presence. There wasn’t much of a reason for this knowledge, but you knew all the same. This man, with but one human being separating the two of you, knew everything.  
  
As he stepped forward to the strawberry blonde at the desk, his head turned to the left, and his eyes met yours. Ice started at the bottoms of your feet, shooting up your veins until it wrapped you in a chilling, frozen embrace. Your manner betrayed nothing, but movement was impossible.  
  
The desk woman’s “Excuse me, sir?” was met with silence as he withdrew his mobile, never breaking his stare as he unlocked it and touched a single button on his home screen. Then all went to chaos.  
  
Alarms began to blare, red flashing lights and screeching and the works. Screams and rattling of steel as the doors locked themselves, desperate pounding on glass and the sound of something shattering.  
  
Your eyes snapped back into focus as quickly as they’d gone hazy. No children. No elderly. Mostly middle-aged folk and a few young-looking people you assumed to be university students. Less tears than you’d expected, but certainly a few blubbering folks littered the bank’s lobby. The inevitable fainter had already slumped to the floor, surrounded by a small group of concerned women. Your mind was steeped in Sherlock-level analytics, not letting a single detail past you in your adrenaline-powered state.  
  
That was, until a figure bent over the fainted woman on the ground caught your attention, and your heart leapt into your throat.  
  
 _“John?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Trigger warning? Y'all get held hostage in a bank for a few chapters. Do I need to tag this?]]
> 
> Aaaaaaand we're back.
> 
> After the hiatus of the century.
> 
> Short chapter is short. Don't worry, more will come soon! I'm so sorry for all the waiting y'all have been doing, and I'm so sorry for where I've left you with this cliffhanger, but don't worry. It's almost done. The end is in sight. Wooooo. (Once this bank situation is done everything will get so much easier, oh goodness.)
> 
> I have the best readers ever in the whole world! Thank you to anyone who's ever encouraged me with this fic. Your words mean more than you know. :)


	28. Chapter 28

You wheeled as quickly as you could through the muddle of panicked people to get to him, noticing your handbag on the floor next to him—you must have forgotten it at home; he had to have been bringing it to you. “John?” you called again as you got closer. “John, why are you here?” You already knew the answer, but you could think of nothing else to say.  
  
His head whipped around at the sound of your voice. “(F/n)!” Relief and fear mingled in the single word. “You left your bag—what’s going on? Do you know anything?”  
  
You said nothing, turning around to see the familiar pinstriped man still watching you. When was he going to begin to get things under control? As though he could read your mind, his lips pulled back into a lop-sided smirk before he opened his mouth.  
  
“If everyone could sit down against the wall over there, that’d be lovely,” he sang in his Scottish accent, lazily drawing a gun from under his jacket. More cries. More whimpering. A huddling mass of about twenty people all shuffling over to sit against the wall. John helped the recovering fainter to her feet and sent you another puzzled look as you remained where you were, but thank god he didn’t question you.  
  
When everyone had taken a seat and the mutterings and cries had died down, James began the show.  
  
“So,” he drawled, “is everybody feeling alright? Any bumps? Bruises? I’m afraid my activities might have triggered the alarms and shocked a few of you into a faint. Terribly sorry.” The alarms had stopped now, and a quiet chill had begun to settle over the small group.  
  
“I’m sure you all have some questions,” he continued. “Why I’m here. Why you’re here. Who this delicious woman over here is—hello, by the way,” he said, looking at you with that vacant smile he always wore. “Well, I’ll answer them in time. Perhaps. Or perhaps not. We’ll see.”  
  
His familiar lilting and verbal sing-songs had a startling air of whimsy to them, a sharp contrast that nearly made you nauseous. Stifling the terror-laden memories flooding your mind, you steeled yourself for your cue to enter into this twisted drama. With an air of false confidence, you cleared your throat.  
  
“Something to say, darling?” he asked, turning to you with an expression of delight. Your stomach twisted.  
  
“James,” you started, looking anywhere but at John, “please cut the theatrics. We’re in a bank, not on a stage.”  
  
“All the world’s a stage—”  
  
“—and all the men and women merely players,” you finished with an exasperated tone. “Thanks, but none of us particularly want to hear your attempts at being suave. Would you mind telling us all why you’ve trapped us in close quarters?”  
  
“A little feisty, this one,” he remarked playfully. You crossed your arms and let a pained smile cross over your features, emanating an aura of frustrated amusement. Not even James could see what you were really thinking—though he could probably guess correctly that you were contemplating how someone could possibly be so obnoxious. With a cock of his eyebrow, he added, “And please, call me Jim.”  
  
You remained quiet, waiting for him to resume speaking. He was never one for long silences.   
  
“Well then, isn’t this just so cozy?” he said in such an erratic, James-like fashion that you nearly rolled your eyes. When he was in a good mood, he acted exactly like a needy puppy. “We should all have some cocoa and marshmallows in here. You all look so sad over there by the wall. No one can be sad drinking cocoa!”  
  
“Since when do you care about anyone being sad?” Your sharp tone sounded wrong inside the small, terrified room; your job as a mediator was to calm everyone and keep the hostage taker calm so a deal could be reached. Normally, this kind of remark would rile someone up. Not James, though; the only way to subdue him, you’d discovered, was to fight back just enough to keep him interested.  
  
He smirked. “Good point.”  
  
You folded your shaking hands in your lap, hoping he wouldn’t catch the fear still coursing through your veins but knowing he already had. “Do you mind if I do a little inventory? My job, after all.”  
  
“Oh, go ahead; don’t let me get in your way,” he said, throwing his hands in the air, gun cocked towards the ceiling. You looked at it with a nervous glint in your eye but said nothing. He still needed to feel in control.  
  
You’d never had a hostage taker as cooperative as James. The first time you’d met, he’d brushed off your calm attempts at speaking to him and told you to go take care of the diabetic in the corner—she was going to faint in a few minutes if someone didn’t get her something to eat. He allowed you certain luxuries many of the more unstable ones wouldn’t dream of: using the washroom, ordering takeout, chatting with fellow hostages at times. Perhaps it was because he had hidden snipers in every building in the vicinity ready to take you out as soon as you didn’t follow his orders… but the privileges were nice all the same.  
  
“Is everyone alright? I’m (f/n), and I’m here to make sure everyone is safe. Are there any injuries? Any medical conditions we should know about?” You spared a glance over to John, who was looking at you with a slack expression on his face—awe? Uncertainty? Shock? _We have a doctor on the scene now,_ the practical part of your brain thought. _That’s good._  
  
You wheeled over to the wall where everyone sat, knowing that you’d already come across as untrustworthy; James clearly knew you, and your banter with him was making a few people question whose side you were really on. Literally getting in their corner would be the best way to go about fixing the small divide.   
  
“James, I think we’d all feel a little better if you put that thing away.” Great. Now you sounded like his mom.  
  
He tossed it into the air, spinning it and then catching it by the handle. “You know I’d never use it on you, darling. You’re far too pretty.”  
  
“Well then, what’s the point of having it out?” you asked.  
  
“To play with!” he whined petulantly, putting on the persona of a small child. He froze, tossed the gun into the air behind his back, and whipped around, catching it in his other hand and pointing it at the small huddle of people like a ten year old cowboy dreamer might. “See?” He looked to you as the people you were supposed to be protecting cowered in fear.  
  
Rolling your eyes so as not to reveal your unease, you shook your head. “James, you’re frightening the children. Please.”  
  
“Ah, so we have a family now?” He grinned, sliding the gun into his belt with a sheepish shrug of the shoulders. You suddenly felt more like an exasperated mother than an effective hostage negotiator.  
  
Out of the corner of your eye, you spied John looking at you. You risked a brief glance at him; his usual puzzled look had a different element to it now—something like astonishment. You snapped your focus back to James before your mind could mull it over. _Focus, (f/n). You can’t lose concentration again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooooo we're finally getting somewhere!!  
> Enjoy, lovelies~  
> Things are just going to get better from here.
> 
> I really do love writing Jim, though. He's a brilliant character--crazy, yeah, but fun.


	29. Chapter 29

As easy as it was to deal with James when he was still on a giddy high from locking a bank down, you knew something needed to change.

Trying to reason with him when he was like this was like trying to talk to a child. You knew the demons were there somewhere, and you certainly didn’t want to wake them, but you needed some semblance of seriousness in order to start reasoning with him. The usual hostage negotiation question would probably do the trick.

“James, what are you doing here? What do you want?”

* * *

Why did you keep calling him _James_? John had been puzzling this since his mind had calmed and he’d been able to channel his nervous energy into focus. Never mind that he was in a potentially fatal hostage situation with the same lunatic who’d strapped him to a bomb, forced his best friend to fake his own death, and had been known to be prone to dramatic, spontaneous outbursts of insanity. Never mind that he’d been under the impression that this man was dead. Why were you calling him _James_?

You’d known him from earlier, he knew; most likely he’d introduced himself as such and you had no idea he went by Jim—perhaps you didn’t even know his last name, a name more powerful than Mycroft’s among criminal gangs. _Moriarty._ He watched your eyes as you spoke to the man. They had a certain fire in them, a mixture of anger and determination; he knew you were struggling to maintain composure under the emotional stress, but your face remained stoic. He had no doubt that you would make it through this.

 

He whispered as much to the few people surrounding him. “She knows what she’s doing; trust me. We’re all going to be fine.”

“Who are you?” the woman who had fainted asked.

“I’m Doctor John Watson; she’s (f/n) Holmes.”

“That detective’s sister?” asked a bald man sporting a goatee. “She as smart as him?”

“She’s brilliant,” John replied, a smile passing over his lips as he watched you.

 

“Do you remember your dear brother?” Moriarty asked in a drawling tone.

John watched as your face hardened around your pursed lips. “I should hope so, James; he’s my brother.”

“Well, then,” he continued slowly, as though speaking to a small child, “you should recall how many of my endeavors he has been able to thwart.” Was he talking about Sherlock or Mycroft?

Your reply held no hints. “Trying to get to my brother through me isn’t going to work. You know that.”

It was then that John realized you were bluffing—both of your brothers cared for you with a deep-running passion. They would take whatever action and use whatever means necessary to keep you from getting hurt. With a faint smile to himself, he admired just how confidently you held yourself, how easily you interacted with a man who could kill you, who had nearly done so on another occasion. He could only hope Jim—or James, as you called him—wouldn’t see through your lie. With the way he’d known so much about the Holmes brothers back when Moriarty still terrorized London, John seriously doubted it; but with the way he seemed to be toying with you, giving you leeway where he would have snapped at any other, a sinking suspicion of what the man’s motives really were dawned upon John’s mind and settled in his gut.

 

“So, now that I’ve got you all here, what shall we do, then? Bound to get rather boring, just sitting there sniveling like abandoned puppies.”

“Indeed,” you confirmed. “What _do_ you have in mind?”

A sickening grin spread over his features once more as he pondered this question. “Wait just a second, dear.” As if on cue, the phone behind one of the desks rang. You moved towards it slightly as he went to pick it up. “Ye-es?” The sing-song voice was back. This really was too much fun for him, you thought bitterly.

Silence.

“Ah. Requests. Funny, we were just talking about that,” he sang as though talking with a friend. “Hmm, well. Yes. I’d like a couple of candy apples along with the usual survival kits you always bring us; so considerate of you, really. Ah, yes—she’s right here.” He had not broken eye contact with you since ordering the candy apples. You stared back with a vacant gaze, careful to push any anger or fear into the back of your mind to deal with later.

When you realized he was gesturing for you to come to the phone, you hesitantly rolled forward, extending a hand to take it from as far as the cord could reach over the desk. You took the phone from him, fingers lightly brushing his; a shiver trailed up your spine. “Hello?”

“(F/n)? Are you alright?” Mycroft.

“Yes, everyone’s fine.”

A pause. “Candy apples?”

“Just… just send them in,” you sighed.

“Do you need anything else? Is anyone hurt?” You glanced over at John, who didn’t appear to be helping anyone. No new injuries.

“We’re okay,” you assured him in in the calmest voice you could muster. “Don’t worry about us. We’re just talking it through.”

Another pause. “You’ll be alright, (f/n).”

A faint smile graced your features; Mycroft usually never expressed sentiments. It was enough to ease the shaking in your hands and give you the courage to look back up at James. You exchanged a brief goodbye and hung up the phone.

“Candy apples. Funny.” You plastered a smirk across your face.

He choked on a giggle. “Clever, wasn’t it? That clue, now this?”

 _That clue_ had triggered a panic attack; you weren’t sure you could _quite_ attribute the word _clever_ to it. “I suppose,” you said with a begrudging tone. He scoffed in mock offense, and you rolled your eyes. “James, dear, you might be clever, but people generally find jokes more amusing when the punchline isn’t explained.”

His eyes seemed to light up for a brief moment before he masked his own thoughts just as you masked yours. You wondered just how long this would stretch for until one of you had had enough; with a spark of determination, you decided it wouldn’t be you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am in _extreme edit mode_ right now. Expect great things. (Or sort of mediocre things, considering I'm working with prose I smashed out during NaNo.)  
>  Let's DO THIIS.


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